THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
MR.  &  MRS.   FRANK  K.  HEARING 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 


THE  WORKS  OF 

MARY  ROBERTS 
RINEHART 


THE    MAN    IN 
LOWER    TEN 


THE   REVIEW  OF   REVIEWS   COMPANY 

Publishers  NEW  YORK 

PUBLISHED  P.T  An!us*l'*lBSf   *lTn  CEOBOB  H.  DOBAN   COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,    1909, 
»Y  THE   BOBB8-MERRILL    COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN       ~ 
CONTENTS 


I  I   GO   TO    PlTTSBURG       ..;.,...  9 

II  A  TORN  TELEGRAM     ......  21 

III  ACROSS  THE  AISLE  .......  32 

IV  NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE  ....  39 

V  THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR  ...  47 

VI  THE  GIRL  IN  BLUE  ......  52 

VII  A  FINE  GOLD  CHAIN  .....     .  60 

VIII  THE  SECOND  SECTION  .......  64 

IX  THE  HALCYON  BREAKFAST     ....  69 

X  Miss  WEST'S  REQUEST     .....  77 

XI  THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN    ....  83 

XII  THE  GOLD  BAG     .....     .     .  92 

XIII  FADED  ROSES     ........  104 

XIV  THE  TRAP-DOOR     .     .     ...     .     .  112 

XV  THE  CINEMATOGRAPH       .     .     »    M    :.  121 

XVI  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL  .     .     .     :.,     .  134 

XVII  AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN  ....  141 

XVIII  A  NEW  WORLD  ........  149 

XIX  AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT  ......  155 

XX  THE  NOTES  AND  A  BARGAIN  ....  162 

XXI  MCKNIGHT'S  THEORY  ......  167 


vi       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 


CHAPTER  PASS 

XXII  AT    THE    BOARDING-HOUSE      ....  1/3 

XXIII  A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS    „     .     .     .  181 

XXIV  His  WIFE'S  FATHER 196 

XXV  AT  THE  STATION .     .  207 

XXVI  ON  TO  RICHMOND 214 

XXVII  THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  ...  226 

XXVIII  ALISON'S  STORY 238 

XXIX  IN  THE  DINING-ROOM     .....  247 

XXX  FINER  DETAILS .  259 

XXXI  AND  ONLY  ONE  ARM     .    Vj    ...    *    ...  278 


THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 


THE  MAN 
IN  LOWER  TEN 

CHAPTER  I 

I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG 

MCKNIGHT  is  gradually  taking  over  the  crim- 
inal end  of  the  business.  I  never  liked  it,  and 
since  the  strange  case  of  the  man  in  lower  ten,  I  have 
been  a  bit  squeamish.  Given  a  case  like  that,  where 
you  can  build  up  a  network  of  clues  that  absolutely 
incriminate  three  entirely  different  people,  only  one  of 
whom  can  be  guilty,  and  your  faith  in  circumstantial 
evidence  dies  of  overcrowding.  I  never  see  a  shiver- 
ing, white-faced  wretch  in  the  prisoners'  dock  that  I 
do  not  hark  back  with  shuddering  horror  to  the  strange 
events  on  the  Pullman  car  Ontario,  between  Washing- 
ton and  Pittsburg,  on  the  night  of  September  ninth, 
last. 

McKnight  could  tell  the  story  a  great  deal  better 
than  I,  although  he  can  not  spell  three  consecutive 
words  correctly.  But,  while  he  has  imagination  and 
humor,  he  is  lazy. 

"It  didn't  happen  to  me,  anyhow,"  he  protested, 
when  I  put  it  up  to  him.  "And  nobody  cares  for  sec- 
9 


10       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

ond-hand  thrills.  Besides,  you  want  the  unvarnished 
and  ungarnished  truth,  and  I'm  no  hand  for  that.  I'm 
a  lawyer." 

So  am  I,  although  there  have  been  times  when  my 
assumption  in  that  particular  has  been  disputed.  I  am 
unmarried,  and  just  old  enough  to  dance  with  the 
grown-up  little  sisters  of  the  girls  I  used  to  know. 
I  am  fond  of  outdoors,  prefer  horses  to  the  aforesaid 
grown-up  little  sisters,  am  without  sentiment  (am 
crossed  out  and  was  substituted. — Ed. )  and  completely 
ruled  and  frequently  routed  by  my  housekeeper,  an 
elderly  widow. 

In  fact,  of  all  the  men  of  my  acquaintance,  I  was 
probably  the  most  prosaic,  the  least  adventurous,  the 
one  man  in  a  hundred  who  would  be  likely  to  go  with- 
out a  deviation  from  the  normal  through  the  orderly 
procession  of  the  seasons,  summer  suits  to  winter  flan- 
nels, golf  to  bridge. 

So  it  was  a  queer  freak  of  the  demons  of  chance  to 
perch  on  my  unsusceptible  thirty-year-old  chest,  tie 
me  up  with  a  crime,  ticket  me  with  a  love  affair,  and 
start  me  on  that  sensational  and  not  always  respectable 
journey  that  ended  so  surprisingly  less  than  three  weeks 
later  in  the  firm's  private  office.  It  had  been  the 
most  remarkable  period  of  my  life.  I  would  neither 
give  it  up  nor  live  it  again  under  any  inducement,  and 
yet  all  that  I  lost  was  some  twenty  yards  off  my  drive ! 

It  was  really  McKnight's  turn  to  make  the  next 
journey.  I  had  a  tournament  at  Chevy  Chase  for 
Saturday,  and  a  short  yacht  cruise  planned  for  Sundav. 


I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG  11 

and  when  a  man  has  been  grinding  at  statute  law  for 
a  week,  he  needs  relaxation.  But  McKnight  begged 
off.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  shirked  that 
summer  in  order  to  run  down  to  Richmond,  and  I 
was  surly  about  it.  But  this  time  he  had  a  new  excuse. 

"I  wouldn't  be  able  to  look  after  the  business  if  I 
did  go,"  he  said.  He  has  a  sort  of  wide-eyed  frank- 
ness that  makes  one  ashamed  to  doubt  him.  "I'm 
always  car  sick  crossing  the  mountains.  It's  a  fact, 
Lollie.  See-sawing  over  the  peaks  does  it.  Why, 
crossing  the  Alleghany  Mountains  has  the  Gulf  Stream 
to  Bermuda  beaten  to  a  frazzle." 

So  I  gave  him  up  finally  and  went  home  to  pack. 
He  came  later  in  the  evening  with  his  machine,  the 
Cannonball,  to  take  me  to  the  station,  and  he  brought 
the  forged  notes  in  the  Bronson  case. 

"Guard  them  with  your  life,"  he  warned  me.  "They 
are  more  precious  than  honor.  Sew  them  in  your 
chest  protector,  or  wherever  people  keep  valuables.  I 
never  keep  any.  I'll  not  be  happy  until  I  see  Gentle- 
man Andy  doing  the  lockstep." 

He  sat  down  on  my  clean  collars,  found  my  ciga- 
rettes and  struck  a  match  on  the  mahogany  bed  post 
with  one  movement. 

"Where's  the  Pirate?"  he  demanded.^  The  Pirate 
is  my  housekeeper,  Mrs  Klopton,  a  very  worthy  wo- 
man, so  labeled — and  libeled — because  of  a  ferocious 
pair  of  eyes  and  what  McKnight  called  a  bucaneering 
nose.  I  quietly  closed  the  door  into  the  hall. 

"Keep  your  voice  down,   Richey,"   I  said.     "She 


12       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

is  looking  for  the  evening  paper  to  see  if  it  is  going 
to  rain.  She  has  my  raincoat  and  an  umbrella  waiting 
in  the  hall." 

The  collars  being  damaged  beyond  repair,  he  left 
them  and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood  there  for 
some  time,  staring  at  the  blackness  that  represented 
the  wall  of  the  house  next  door. 

"It's  raining  now,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder,  and 
closed  the  window  and  the  shutters.  Something  in 
his  voice  made  me  glance  up,  but  he  was  watching  me, 
his  hands  idly  in  his  pockets. 

"Who  lives  next  door?"  he  inquired  in  a  perfunctory 
tone,  after  a  pause.  I  was  packing  my  razor. 

"House  is  empty,"  I  returned  absently.  "If  the 
landlord  would  put  it  in  some  sort  of  shape — " 

"Did  you  put  those  notes  in  your  pocket  ?"  he  broke 
in. 

"Yes."  I  was  impatient.  "Along  with  my  certifi- 
cates of  registration,  baptism  and  vaccination.  Who- 
ever wants  them  will  have  to  steal  my  coat  to  get  them." 

"Well,  I  would  move  them,  if  I  were  you.  Some- 
body in  the  next  house  was  confoundedly  anxious  to 
see  where  you  put  them.  Somebody  right  at  that  win- 
dow opposite." 

I  scoffed  at  the  idea,  but  nevertheless  I  moved  the 
papers,  putting  them  in  my  traveling-bag,  well  down 
at  the  bottom.  McKnight  watched  me  uneasily. 

"I  have  a  hunch  that  you  are  going  to  have  trouble," 
he  said,  as  I  locked  the  alligator  bag.  "Darned  if  I 
like  starting  anything  important  on  Friday." 


I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG  13 

"You  have  a  congenital  dislike  to  start  anything  on 
any  old  day,"  I  retorted,  still  sore  from  my  lost  Satur- 
day. "And  if  you  knew  the  owner  of  that  house  as  I 
do  you  would  know  that  if  there  was  any  one  at  that 
window  he  is  paying  rent  for  the  privilege." 

Mrs.  Klopton  rapped  at  the  door  and  spoke  discreetly 
from  the  hall. 

"Did  Mr.  McKnight  bring  the  evening  paper?"  she 
inquired. 

"Sorry,  but  I  didn't,  Mrs.  Klopton,"  McKnight 
called.  "The  Cubs  won,  three  to  nothing."  He  lis- 
tened, grinning,  as  she  moved  away  with  little  irritated 
rustles  of  her  black  silk  gown. 

I  finished  my  packing,  changed  my  collar  and  was 
ready  to  go.  Then  very  cautiously  we  put  out  the 
light  and  opened  the  shutters.  The  window  across 
was  merely  a  deeper  black  in  the  darkness.  It  was 
closed  and  dirty.  And  yet,  probably  owing  to  Richey's 
suggestion,  I  had  an  uneasy  sensation  of  eyes  staring 
across  at  me.  The  next  moment  we  were  at  the  door, 
poised  for  flight. 

"We'll  have  to  run  for  it,"  I  said  in  a  whisper. 
"She's  down  there  with  a  package  of  some  sort,  sand- 
wiches probably.  And  she's  threatened  me  with  over- 
shoes for  a  month.  Ready  now !" 

I  had  a  kaleidoscopic  view  of  Mrs.  Klopton  in  the 
lower  hall,  holding  out  an  armful  of  such  traveling 
impedimenta  as  she  deemed  essential,  while  beside  her, 
Euphemia,  the  colored  housemaid,  grinned  over  a 
white-wrapped  box. 


14       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Awfully  sorry — no  time — back  Sunday,"  I  panted 
over  my  shoulder.  Then  the  door  closed  and  the  car 
was  moving  away. 

McKnight  bent  forward  and  stared  at  the  fagade  of 
the  empty  house  next  door  as  we  passed.  It  was 
black,  staring,  mysterious,  as  empty  buildings  are  apt 
to  be. 

"I'd  like  to  hold  a  post-mortem  on  that  corpse  of  a 
house,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "By  George,  I've  a 
notion  to  get  out  and  take  a  look." 

"Somebody  after  the  brass  pipes,"  I  scoffed. 
"House  has  been  empty  for  a  year." 

With  one  hand  on  the  steering  wheel  McKnight  held 
out  the  other  for  my  cigarette  case.  "Perhaps,"  he 
said ;  "but  I  don't  see  what  she  would  want  with  brass 
pipe." 

"A  woman!"  I  laughed  outright.  "You  have  been 
looking  too  hard  at  the  picture  in  the  back  of  your 
watch,  that's  all.  There's  an  experiment  like  that:  if 
you  stare  long  enough — " 

But  McKnight  was  growing  sulky:  he  sat  looking 
rigidly  ahead,  and  he  did  not  speak  again  until  he 
brought  the  Cannonball  to  a  stop  at  the  station.  Even 
then  it  was  only  a  perfunctory  remark.  He  went 
through  the  gate  with  me,  and  with  five  minutes  to 
spare,  we  lounged  and  smoked  in  the  train  shed.  My 
mind  had  slid  away  from  my  surroundings  and  had 
wandered  to  a  polo  pony  that  I  couldn't  afford  and 
intended  to  buy  anyhow*  Then  McKnight  shook  off 
his  taciturnity. 


I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG  15 

"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  look  so  martyred,"  he 
burst  out;  "I  know  you've  done  all  the  traveling  this 
summer.  I  know  you're  missing  a  game  to-morrow. 
But  don't  be  a  patient  mother;  confound  it,  I  have  to 
go  to  Richmond  on  Sunday.  I — I  want  to  see  a  girl." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  I  observed  politely.  "Per- 
sonally, I  wouldn't  change  places  with  you.  What's 
her  name— North?  South?" 

"West,"  he  snapped.  "Don't  try  to  be  funny.  And 
all  I  have  to  say,  Blakeley,  is  that  if  you  ever  fall  in 
love  I  hope  you  make  an  egregious  ass  of  yourself." 

In  view  of  what  followed,  this  came  rather  close  to 
prophecy. 

The  trip  west  was  without  incident.  I  played  bridge 
with  a  furniture  dealer  from  Grand  Rapids,  a  sales 
agent  for  a  Pittsburg  iron  firm  and  a  young  professor 
from  an  eastern  college.  I  won  three  rubbers  out  of 
four,  finished  what  cigarettes  McKnight  had  left  me, 
and  went  to  bed  at  one  o'clock.  It  was  growing  cooler, 
and  the  rain  had  ceased.  Once,  toward  morning,  I 
wakened  with  a  start,  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  sat 
bolt  upright.  I  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some  one 
had  been  looking  at  me,  the  same  sensation  I  had  ex- 
perienced earlier  in  the  evening  at  the  window.  But  I 
could  feel  the  bag  with  the  notes,  between  me  and  the 
window,  and  with  my  arm  thrown  over  it  for  security, 
I  lapsed  again  into  slumber.  Later,  when  I  tried  to 
piece  together  the  fragments  of  that  journey,  I  remem- 
bered that  my  coat,  which  had  been  folded  and  placed 
beyond  my  restless  tossing,  had  been  rescued  in  the 


16       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

morning  from  a  heterogeneous  jumble  of  blankets,  eve- 
ning papers  and  cravat,  had  been  shaken  out  with  pro- 
fanity and  donned  with  wrath.  At  the  time,  nothing 
occurred  to  me  but  the  necessity  of  writing  to  the  Pull- 
man Company  and  asking  them  if  they  ever  traveled  in 
their  own  cars.  I  even  formulated  some  of  the  letter. 

"If  they  are  built  to  scale,  why  not  take  a  man  of 
ordinary  stature  as  your  unit?"  I  wrote  mentally. 
"I  can  not  fold  together  like  the  traveling  cup  with 
which  I  drink  your  abominable  water." 

I  was  more  cheerful  after  I  had  had  a  cup  of  coffee 
in  the  Union  Station.  It  was  too  early  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness, and  I  lounged  in  the  restaurant  and  hid  behind  the 
morning  papers.  As  I  had  expected,  they  had  got  hold 
of  my  visit  and  its  object.  On  the  first  page  was  a 
staring  announcement  that  the  forged  papers  in  the 
Bronson  case  had  been  brought  to  Pittsburg.  Under- 
neath, a  telegram  from  Washington  stated  that  Law- 
rence Blakeley,  of  Blakeley  and  McKnight,  had  left 
for  Pittsburg  the  night  before,  and  that,  owing  to  the 
approaching  trial  of  the  Bronson  case  and  the  illness  of 
John  Gilmore,  the  Pittsburg  millionaire,  who  was  the 
chief  witness  for  the  prosecution,  it  was  supposed  that 
the  visit  was  intimately  concerned  with  the  trial. 

I  looked  around  apprehensively.  There  were  no 
reporters  yet  in  sight,  and  thankful  to  have  escaped 
notice  I  paid  for  my  breakfast  and  left.  At  the  cab- 
stand I  chose  the  least  dilapidated  hansom  I  could  find, 
and  giving  the  driver  the  address  of  the  Gilmore 
residence,  in  t^<t  East  end,  I  got  in. 


I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG  17 

I  was  just  in  time.  As  the  cab  turned  and  rolled 
off,  a  slim  young  man  in  a  straw  hat  separated  him- 
self from  a  little  group  of  men  and  hurried  toward 
us. 

"Hey!  Wait  a  minute  there!"  he  called,  breaking 
into  a  trot. 

But  the  cabby  did  not  hear,  or  perhaps  did  not  care 
to.  We  jogged  comfortably  along,  to  my  relief,  leav- 
ing the  young  man  far  behind.  I  avoid  reporters  on 
principle,  having  learned  long  ago  that  I  am  an  easy 
mark  for  a  clever  interviewer. 

It  was  perhaps  nine  o'clock  when  I  left  the  station. 
Our  way  was  along  the  boulevard  which  hugged  the 
side  of  one  of  the  city's  great  hills.  Far  below,  to  the 
left,  lay  the  railroad  tracks  and  the  seventy  times  seven 
looming  stacks  of  the  mills.  The  white  mist  of  the 
river,  the  grays  and  blacks  of  the  smoke  blended  into 
a  half -revealing  haze,  dotted  here  and  there  with  fire. 
It  was  unlovely,  tremendous.  Whistler  might  have 
painted  it  with  its  pathos,  its  majesty,  but  he  would 
have  missed  what  made  it  infinitely  suggestive — the 
rattle  and  roar  of  iron  on  iron,  the  rumble  of  wheels, 
the  throbbing  beat,  against  the  ears,  of  fire  and  heat 
and  brawn  welding  prosperity. 

Something  of  this  I  voiced  to  the  grim  old  million- 
aire who  was  responsible  for  at  least  part  of  it.  He 
was  propped  up  in  bed  in  his  East  end  home,  listening 
to  the  market  reports  read  by  a  nurse,  and  he  smiled 
a  little  at  my  enthusiasm. 

"I  can't  see  much  beauty  in  it  myself,"  he  said.    "But 


18       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

it's  our  badge  of  prosperity.  The  full  dinner  pail  here 
means  a  nose  that  looks'  like  a  flue.  Pittsburg  without 
smoke  wouldn't  be  Pittsburg,  any  more  than  New 
York  prohibition  would  be  New  York.  Sit  down  for 
a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Blakeley.  Now,  Miss  Gardner, 
Westinghouse  Electric." 

The  nurse  resumed  her  reading  in  a  monotonous 
voice.  She  read  literally  and  without  understanding, 
using  initials  and  abbreviations  as  they  came.  But  the 
shrewd  old  man  followed  her  easily.  Once,  however, 
he  stopped  her. 

"D-o  is  ditto,"  he  said  gently,  "not  do" 

As  the  nurse  droned  along,  I  found  myself  looking 
curiously  at  a  photograph  in  a  silver  frame  on  the  bed- 
side table.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  girl  in  white,  with 
her  hands  clasped  loosely  before  her.  Against  the  dark 
background  her  figure  stood  out  slim  and  young. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  rather  grim  environment,  possibly 
it  was  my  mood,  but  although  as  a  general  thing  photo- 
graphs of  young  girls  make  no  appeal  to  me,  this  one 
did.  I  found  my  eyes  straying  back  to  it.  By  a  little 
finesse  I  even  made  out  the  name  written  across  the 
corner,  "Alison." 

Mr.  Gilmore  lay  back  among  his  pillows  and  listened 
to  the  nurse's  listless  voice.  But  he  was  watching  me 
from  under  his  heavy  eyebrows,  for  when  the  reading 
was  over,  and  we  were  alone,  he  indicated  the  picture 
with  a  gesture. 

"I  keep  it  there  to  remind  myself  that  I  am  an  old 


I  GO  TO  PITTSBURG  19 

man,"  he  said.  "That  is  my  granddaughter,  Alison 
West." 

I  expressed  the  customary  polite  surprise,  at  which, 
finding  me  responsive,  he  told  me  his  age  with  a 
chuckle1  of  pride.  More  surprise,  this  time  genuine. 
From  that  we  went  to  what  he  ate  for  breakfast  and 
did  not  eat  for  luncheon,  and  then  to  his  reserve  power, 
which  at  sixty-five  becomes  a  matter  for  thought.  And 
so,  in  a  wide  circle,  back  to  where  we  started,  the 
picture. 

"Father  was  a  rascal,"  John  Gilmore  said,  picking 
up  the  frame.  "The  happiest  day  of  my  life  was 
when  I  knew  he  was  safely  dead  in  bed  and  not  hanged. 
If  the  child  had  looked  like  him,  I — well,  she  doesn't. 
She's  a  Gilmore,  every  inch.  Supposed  to  look  like 
me." 

"Very  noticeably,"  I  agreed  soberly. 

I  had  produced  the  notes  by  that  time,  and  replacing 
the  picture  Mr.  Gilmore  gathered  his  spectacles  from 
beside  it.  He  went  over  the  four  notes  methodically, 
examining  each  carefully  and  putting  it  down  before 
he  picked  up  the  next.  Then  he  leaned  back  and  took 
off  his  glasses. 

"They're  not  so  bad,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "Not 
so  bad.  But  I  never  saw  them  before.  That's  my  un- 
official signature.  I  am  inclined  to  think" — he  was 
speaking  partly  to  himself — "to  think  that  he  has  got 
hold  of  a  letter  of  mine,  probably  to  Alison.  Bronson 
was  a  friend  of  her  rapscallion  of  a  father." 

I  took  Mr.  Gilmore's  deposition  and  put  it  into  my 


20       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

traveling-bag  with  the  forged  notes.  When  I  saw 
them  again,  almost  three  weeks  later,  they  were  un- 
recognizable, a  mass  of  charred  paper  on  a  copper  ash- 
tray. In  the  interval  other  and  bigger  things  had  hap- 
pened: the  Bronson  forgery  case  had  shrunk  beside 
the  greater  and  more  imminent  mystery  of  the  man 
in  lower  ten.  And  Alison  West  had  come  into  the 
story  and  into  my 


CHAPTER  II 

A  TORN   TELEGRAM 

I  LUNCHED  alone  at  the  Gilmore  house,  and  went 
back  to  the  city  at  once.  The  sun  had  lifted  the 
mists,  and  a  fresh  summer  wind  had  cleared  away  the 
smoke  pall.  The  boulevard  was  full  of  cars  flying 
country  ward  for  the  Saturday  half-holiday,  toward 
golf  and  tennis,  green  fields  and  babbling  girls.  I 
gritted  my  teeth  and  thought  of  McKnight  at  Rich- 
mond, visiting  the  lady  with  the  geographical  name. 
And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  associated  John  Gil- 
more's  granddaughter  with  the  "West"  that  McKnight 
had  irritably  flung  at  me. 

I  still  carried  my  traveling-bag,  for  McKnight's 
vision  at  the  window  of  the  empty  house  had  not  been 
without  effect.  I  did  not  transfer  the  notes  to  my 
pocket,  and,  if  I  had,  it  would  not  have  altered  the 
situation  later.  Only  the  other  day  McKnight  put  this 
very  thing  up  to  me. 

"I  warned  you,"  he  reminded  me.  "I  told  you  there 
were  queer  things  coming,  and  to  be  on  your  guard. 
You  ought  to  have  taken  your  revolver." 

"It  would  have  been  of  exactly  as  much  use  as  a 
bucket  of  snow  in — Africa,"  I  retorted.  "If  I  had 
never  closed  my  eyes,  or  if  I  had  kept  my  finger  on 
the  trigger  of  a  six-shooter  (which  is  novelesque  for 


22       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

revolver),  the  result  would  have  been  the  same.  And 
the  next  time  you  want  a  little  excitement  with  every 
variety  of  thrill  thrown  in,  I  can  put  you  by  way  of  it. 
You  begin  by  getting  the  wrong  berth  in  a  Pullman  car, 
and  end — " 

"Oh,  I  know  how  it  ends,"  he  finished  shortly. 
"Don't  you  suppose  the  whole  thing's  written  on  my 
spinal  marrow?" 

But  I  am  wandering  again.  That  is  the  difficulty 
with  the  unprofessional  story-teller:  he  yaws  back  and 
forth  and  can't  keep  in  the  wind;  he  drops  his  char- 
acters overboard  when  he  hasn't  any  further  use  for 
them  and  drowns  them;  he  forgets  the  coffee-pot  and 
the  frying-pan  and  all  the  other  small  essentials,  and, 
if  he  carries  a  love  affair,  he  mutters  a  fervent  "Allah 
be  praised"  when  he  lands  them,  drenched  with  adven- 
tures, at  the  matrimonial  dock  at  the  end  of  the  final 
chapter. 

I  put  in  a  thoroughly  unsatisfactory  afternoon. 
Time  dragged  eternally.  I  dropped  in  at  a  summer 
vaudeville,  and  bought  some  ties  at  a  haberdasher's.  I 
was  bored  but  unexpectant;  I  had  no  premonition  of 
what  was  to  come.  Nothing  unusual  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  me ;  friends  of  mine  had  sometimes  sailed  the 
high  seas  of  adventure  or  skirted  the  coasts  of  chance, 
but  all  of  the  shipwrecks  had  occurred  after  a  woman 
passenger  had  been  taken  on.  "Ergo,"  I  had  always 
said  "no  women!"  I  repeated  it  to  myself  that  evening 
almost  savagely,  when  I  found  my  thoughts  straying 
back  to  the  picture  of  John  Gilmore's  granddaughter. 


A  TORN  TELEGRAM  23 

I  eve*,  Argued  as  I  ate  my  solitary  dinner  at  a  down- 
town restaurant. 

"Haven't  you  troubles  enough,"  I  reflected,  "without 
looking  for  more?  Hasn't  Bad  News  gone  lame,  with 
a  matinee  race  booked  for  next  week?  Otherwise 
aren't  you  comfortable?  Isn't  your  house  in  order? 
Do  you  want  to  sell  a  pony  in  order  to  have  the  library 
done  over  in  mission  or  the  drawing-room  in  gold? 
Do  you  want  somebody  to  count  the  empty  cigarette 
boxes  lying  around  every  morning?" 

Lay  it  to  the  long  idle  afternoon,  to  the  new  environ- 
ment, to  anything  you  like,  but  I  began  to  think  that 
perhaps  I  did.  I  was  confoundedly  lonely.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life  its  even  course  began  to  waver: 
the  needle  registered  warning  marks  on  the  matrimonial 
seismograph,  lines  vague  enough,  but  lines. 

My  alligator  bag  lay  at  my  feet,  still  locked.  While 
I  waited  for  my  coffee  I  leaned  back  and  surveyed  the 
people  incuriously.  There  were  the  usual  couples  in- 
tent on  each  other :  my  new  state  of  mind  made  me  re- 
gard them  with  tolerance.  But  at  the  next  table,  where 
a  man  and  woman  dined  together,  a  different  atmos- 
phere prevailed.  My  attention  was  first  caught  by  the 
woman's  face.  She  had  been  speaking  earnestly  across 
the  table,  her  profile  turned  to  me.  I  had  noticed  cas- 
ually her  earnest  manner,  her  somber  clothes,  and  the 
great  mass  of  odd,  bronze-colored  hair  on  her  neck. 
But  suddenly  she  glanced  toward  me  and  the  utter 
hoplessness — almost  tragedy — of  her  expression  struck 
me  with  a  shock.  She  half  closed  her  eyes  and  drew 


24       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

a  long  breath,  then  she  turned  again  to  the  man  across 
the  table. 

Neither  one  was  eating.  He  sat  low  in  his  chair,  his 
chin  on  his  chest,  ugly  folds  of  thick  flesh  protruding 
over  his  collar.  He  was  probably  fifty,  bald,  grotesque, 
sullen,  and  yet  not  without  a  suggestion  of  power. 
But  he  had  been  drinking;  as  I  looked,  he  raised  an 
unsteady  hand  and  summoned  a  waiter  with  a  wine  list. 

The  young  woman  bent  across  the  table  and  spoke 
again  quickly.  She  had  unconsciously  raised  her  voice. 
Not  beautiful,  in  her  earnestness  and  stress  she  rather 
interested  me.  I  had  an  idle  inclination  to  advise  the, 
waiter  to  remove  the  bottled  temptation  from  the  table. 
I  wonder  what  would  have  happened  if  I  had?  Suppose 
Harrington  had  not  been  intoxicated  when  he  entered 
the  Pullman  car  Ontario  that  night ! 

For  they  were  about  to  make  a  journey,  I  gathered, 
and  the  young  woman  wished  to  go  alone.  I  drank 
three  cups  of  coffee,  which  accounted  for  my  wakeful- 
ness  later,  and  shamelessly  watched  the  tableau  before 
me.  The  woman's  protest  evidently  went  for  nothing : 
across  the  table  the  man  grunted  monosyllabic  replies 
and  grew  more  and  more  lowering  and  sullen.  Once, 
during  a  brief  unexpected  pianissimo  in  the  music,  her 
voice  came  to  me  sharply : 

"If  I  could  only  see  him  in  time!"  she  was  saying. 
"Oh,  it's  terrible!" 

In  spite  of  my  interest  I  would  have  forgotten  the 
whole  incident  at  once,  erased  it  from  my  mind  as  one 
does  the  inessentials  and  clutterings  of  memorv.  had  I 


A  TORN  TELEGRAM 25 

not  met  them  again,  later  that  evening,  in  the  Pennsyl- 
vania station.  The  situation  between  them  had  not 
visibly  altered :  the  same  dogged  determination  showed 
in  the  man's  face,  but  the  young  woman — daughter  or 
wife?  I  wondered — had  drawn  down  her  veil  and  I 
could  only  suspect  what  white  misery  lay  beneath. 

I  bought  my  berth  after  waiting  in  a  line  of  some 
eight  or  ten  people.  When,  step  by  step,  I  had  almost 
reached  the  window,  a  tall  woman  whom  I  had  not 
noticed  before  spoke  to  me  from  my  elbow.  She  had 
a  ticket  and  money  in  her  hand. 

"Will  you  try  to  get  me  a  lower  when  you  buy 
yours?"  she  asked.  "I  have  traveled  for  three  nights 
in  uppers." 

I  consented,  of  course ;  beyond  that  I  hardly  noticed 
the  woman.  I  had  a  vague  impression  of  height  and  a 
certain  amount  of  stateliness,  but  the  crowd  was  push- 
ing behind  me,  and  some  one  was  standing  on  my  foot. 
I  got  two  lowers  easily,  and,  turning  with  the  change 
and  berths,  held  out  the  tickets. 

"Which  will  you  have?"  I  asked.  "Lower  eleven  or 
lower  ten?" 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  she  said.  "Thank  you 
very  much  indeed." 

At  random  I  gave  her  lower  eleven,  and  called 
a  porter  to  help  her  with  her  luggage.  I  followed  them 
leisurely  to  the  train  shed,  and  ten  minutes  more  saw 
us  under  way. 

I  looked  into  my  car,  but  it  presented  the  peculiarly 
unattractive  appearance  common  to  sleepers.  The  berths 


26       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

were  made  up;  the  center  aisle  was  a  path  between 
walls  of  dingy,  breeze-repelling  curtains,  while  the  two 
seats  at  each  end  of  the  car  were  piled  high  with  suit- 
cases and  umbrellas.  The  perspiring  porter  was  trying 
to  be  six  places  at  once :  somebody  has  said  that  Pull- 
man porters  are  black  so  they  won't  show  the  dirt,  but 
they  certainly  show  the  heat. 

Nine-fifteen  was  an  outrageous  hour  to  go  to  bed, 
especially  since  I  sleep  little  or  not  at  all  on  the  train, 
so  I  made  my  way  to  the  smoker  and  passed  the  time 
until  nearly  eleven  with  cigarettes  and  a  magazine. 

The  car  was  very  close.  It  was  a  warm  night,  and 
before  turning  in  I  stood  a  short  time  in  the  vestibule. 
The  train  had  been  stopping  at  frequent  intervals,  and, 
finding  the  brakeman  there,  I  asked  the  trouble. 

It  seemed  that  there  was  a  hot-box  on  the  next  car, 
and  that  not  only  were  we  late,  but  we  were  delaying 
the  second  section,  just  behind.  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  pleasantly  drowsy,  and  the  air  was  growing  cooler 
as  we  got  into  the  mountains.  I  said  good  night  to 
the  brakeman  and  went  back  to  my  berth.  To  my  sur- 
prise, lower  ten  was  already  occupied — a  suit-case  pro- 
jected from  beneath,  a  pair  of  shoes  stood  on  the  floor, 
and  from  behind  the  curtains  came  the  heavy,  un- 
mistakable breathing  of  deep  sleep.  I  hunted  out  the 
porter  and  together  we  investigated. 

"Are  you  asleep,  sir?"  asked  the  porter,  lean- 
ing over  deferentially.  No  answer  forthcoming,  he 
opened  the  curtains  and  looked  in.  Yes,  the  intruder 
was  asleep — very  much  asleep — and  an  overwhelming 


A  TORN  TELEGRAM 27 

odor  of  whisky  proclaimed  that  he  would  probably  re- 
main asleep  until  morning.  I  was  irritated.  The  car 
was  full,  and  I  was  not  disposed  to  take  an  upper  in 
order  to  allow  this  drunken  interloper  to  sleep  com- 
fortably in  my  berth. 

"You'll  have  to  get  out  of  this,"  I  said,  shaking 
him  angrily.  But  he  merely  grunted  and  turned  over. 
As  he  did  so,  I  saw  his  features  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  the  quarrelsome  man  of  the  restaurant. 

I  was  less  disposed  than  ever  to  relinquish  my  claim, 
but  the  porter,  after  a  little  quiet  investigation,  offered 
a  solution  of  the  difficulty.  "There's  no  one  in  lower 
nine,"  he  suggested,  pulling  open  the  curtains  just 
across.  "It's  likely  nine's  his  berth,  and  he's  made  a 
mistake,  owing  to  his  condition.  You'd  better  take 
nine,  sir." 

I  did,  with  a  firm  resolution  that  if  nine's  rightful 
owner  turned  up  later  I  should  be  just  as  unwakaWe  as 
the  man  opposite.  I  undressed  leisurely,  making  sure 
of  the  safety  of  the  forged  notes,  and  placing  my  grip 
as  before  between  myself  and  the  window. 

Being  a  man  of  systematic  habits,  I  arranged  my 
clothes  carefully,  putting  my  shoes  out  for  the  porter  to 
polish,  and  stowing  my  collar  and  scarf  in  the  little 
hammock  swung  for  the  purpose. 

At  last,  with  my  pillows  so  arranged  that  I  could 
see  out  comfortably,  and  with  the  unhygienic-looking 
blanket  turned  back — I  have  always  a  distrust  of  those 
much-used  affairs — I  prepared  to  wait  gradually  for 
sleep. 


28       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

But  sleep  did  not  visit  me.  The  train  came  to  fre- 
quent, grating  stops,  and  I  surmised  the  hot  box  again. 
I  am  not  a  nervous  man,  but  there  was  something 
chilling  in  the  thought  of  the  second  section  pounding 
along  behind  us.  Once,  as  I  was  dozing,  our  locomo- 
tive whistled  a  shrill  warning — "You  keep  back  where 
you  belong,"  it  screamed  to  my  drowsy  ears,  and  from 
somewhere  behind  came  a  chastened  "All-right-I-will." 

I  grew  more  and  more  wide-awake.  At  Cresson  I 
got  up  on  my  elbow  and  blinked  out  at  the  station 
lights.  Some  passengers  boarded  the  train  there  and 
I  heard  a  woman's  low  tones,  a  southern  voice,  rich 
and  full.  Then  quiet  again.  Every  nerve  was  tense : 
time  passed,  perhaps  ten  minutes,  possibly  half  an 
hour.  Then,  without  the  slightest  warning,  as  the  train 
rounded  a  curve,  a  heavy  body  was  thrown  into  my 
berth.  The  incident,  trivial  as  it  seemed,  was  startling 
in  its  suddenness,  for  although  my  ears  were  pain- 
fully strained  and  awake,  I  had  heard  no  step  outside. 
The  next  instant  the  curtain  hung  limp  again;  still 
without  a  sound,  my  disturber  had  slipped  away  into 
the  gloom  and  darkness.  In  a  frenzy  of  wake  fulness, 
I  sat  up,  drew  on  a  pair  of  slippers  and  fumbled  for  my 
bath-robe. 

From  a  berth  across,  probably  lower  ten,  came  that 
particular  aggravating  snore  which  begins  lightly,  deli- 
cately, faintly  soprano,  goes  down  the  scale  a  note  with 
every  breath,  and,  after  keeping  the  listener  tense  with 
expectation,  ends  with  an  explosion  that  tears  the  very 
air.  I  was  more  and  more  irritable :  I  sat  on  the  edge 


A  TORN  TELEGRAM 29 

of  the  berth  and  hoped  the  snorer  would  choke  to  death. 

He  had  considerable  vitality,  however ;  he  withstood 
one  shock  after  another  and  survived  to  start  again 
with  new  vigor.  In  desperation  I  found  some  ciga- 
rettes and  one  match,  piled  my  blankets  over  my  grip, 
and  drawing  the  curtains  together  as  though  the  berth 
were  still  occupied,  I  made  my  way  to  the  vestibule  of 
the  car. 

I  was  not  clad  for  dress  parade.  Is  it  because  the 
male  is  so  restricted  to  gloom  in  his  every-day  attire 
that  he  blossoms  into  gaudy  colors  in  his  pajamas  and 
dressing-gowns?  It  would  take  a  Turk  to  feel  at 
home  before  an  audience  in  my  red  and  yellow  bath- 
robe, a  Christmas  remembrance  from  Mrs.  Klopton, 
with  slippers  to  match. 

So,  naturally,  when  I  saw  a  feminine  figure  on 
the  platform,  my  first  instinct  was  to  dodge.  The  wo- 
man, however,  was  quicker  than  I ;  she  gave  me  a 
startled  glance,  wheeled  and  disappeared,  with  a  flash 
of  two  bronze-colored  braids,  into  the  next  car. 

Cigarette  box  in  one  hand,  match  in  the  other,  I 
leaned  against  the  uncertain  frame  of  the  door  and 
gazed  after  her  vanished  figure.  The  mountain  air 
flapped  my  bath-robe  around  my  bare  ankles,  my  one 
match  burned  to  the  end  and  went  out,  and  still  I  stared. 
For  I  had  seen  on  her  expressive  face  a  haunting  look 
that  was  horror,  nothing  less.  Heaven  knows,  I  am 
not  psychological.  Emotions  have  to  be  written  large 
before  I  can  read  them.  But  a  woman  in  trouble  al- 


30       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

ways  appeals  to  me,  and  this  woman  was  more  than 
that.  She  was  in  deadly  fear. 

If  I  had  not  been  afraid  of  being  ridiculous,  I  would 
have  followed  her.  But  I  fancied  that  the  apparition 
of  a  man  in  a  red  and  yellow  bath-robe,  with  an 
unkempt  thatch  of  hair,  walking  up  to  her  and  assuring 
her  that  he  would  protect  her  would  probably  put  her 
into  hysterics.  I  had  done  that  once  before,  when 
burglars  had  tried  to  break  into  the  house,  and  had 
startled  the' parlor  maid  into  bed  for  a  week.  So  I  tried 
to  assure  myself  that  I  had  imagined  the  lady's  dis- 
ti  tss — or  caused  it,  perhaps — and  to  dismiss  her  from 
my  mind.  Perhaps  she  was  merely  anxious  about  the 
unpleasant  gentleman  of  the  restaurant.  I  thought 
smugly  that  I  could  have  told  her  all  about  him :  that  he 
was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  intoxicated 
in  a  berth  that  ought,  by  all  that  was  fair  and  right, 
to  have  been  mine,  and  that  if  I  were  tied  to  a  man 
who  snored  like  that  I  should  have  him  anaesthetized 
and  his  soft  palate  put  where  it  would  never  again  flap 
like  a  loose  sail  in  the  wind., 

We  passed  Harrisburg  as  I  stood  there.  It  was  star- 
light, and  the  great  crests  of  the  Alleghanies  had  given 
way  to  low  hills.  At  intervals  we  passed  smudges  of 
gray  white,  no  doubt  in  daytime  comfortable  farms, 
which  McKnight  says  is  a  good  way  of  putting  it,  the 
farms  being  a  lot  more  comfortable  than  the  people 
on  them. 

I  was  growing  drowsy :  the  woman  with  the  bronze 
hair  and  the  horrified  face  was  fading  in  retrospect. 


A  TORN  TELEGRAM 31 

It  was  colder,  too,  and  I  turned  with  a  shiver  to  go  in. 

As  I  did  so  a  bit  of  paper  fluttered  into  the  air  and 
settled  on  my  sleeve,  like  a  butterfly  on  a  gorgeous 
red  and  yellow  blossom.  I  picked  it  up  curiously  and 
glanced  at  it.  It  was  part  of  a  telegram  that  had  been 
torn  into  bits. 

There  were  only  parts  of  four  words  on  the  scrap, 
but  it  left  me  puzzled  and  thoughtful.  It  read,  " — ower 
ten,  car  seve — ."  "Lower  ten,  car  seven,"  was  my 
berth — the  one  I  had  bought  and  found  preempted. 


CHAPTER  III 

ACROSS    THE    AISLE 

NO  solution  offering  itself,  I  went  back  to  my 
berth.  The  snorer  across  had  apparently 
strangled,  or  turned  over,  and  so  after  a  time  I  dropped 
asleep,  to  be  awakened  by  the  morning  sunlight  across 
my  face. 

I  felt  for  my  watch,  yawning  prodigiously.  I 
reached  under  the  pillow  and  failed  to  find  it,  but  some- 
thing scratched  the  back  of  my  hand.  I  sat  up  irritably 
and  nursed  the  wound,  which  was  bleeding  a  little.  Still 
drowsy,  I  felt  more  cautiously  for  what  I  supposed  had 
been  my  scarf  pin,  but  there  was  nothing  there.  Wide 
awake  now,  I  reached  for  my  traveling-bag,  on  the 
chance  that  I  had  put  my  watch  in  there.  I  had  drawn 
the  satchel  to  me  and  had  my  hand  on  the  lock  before 
I  realized  that  it  was  not  my  own ! 

Mine  was  of  alligator  hide.  I  had  killed  the  beast 
in  Florida,  after  the  expenditure  of  enough  money 
to  have  bought  a  house  and  enough  energy  to  have 
built  one.  The  bag  I  held  in  my  hand  was  a  black  one, 
sealskin,  I  think.  The  staggering  thought  of  what  the 
loss  of  my  bag  meant  to  me  put  my  finger  on  the  bell 
and  kept  it  there  until  the  porter  came. 

"Did  you  ring,  sir?"  he  asked,  poking  his  head 
through  the  curtains  obsequiously.  McKnight  objects 
32 


ACROSS  THE  AISLE 


that  nobody  can  poke  his  head  through  a  curtain  and 
be  obsequious.  But  Pullman  porters  can  and  do. 

"No,"  I  snapped.  "It  rang  itself.  What  in  thunder 
do  you  mean  by  exchanging  my  valise  for  this  one? 
•You'll  have  to  find  it  if  you  waken  the  entire  car  to  do 
it.  There  are  important  papers  in  that  grip." 

"Porter,"  called  a  feminine  voice  from  an  upper 
berth  near-by.  "Porter,  am  I  to  dangle  here  all  day?" 

"Let  her  dangle,"  I  said  savagely.  "You  find  that 
bag  of  mine." 

The  porter  frowned.  Then  he  looked  at  me  with 
injured  dignity.  "I  brought  in  your  overcoat,  sir. 
You  carried  your  own  valise." 

The  fellow  was  right !  In  an  excess  of  caution  I  had 
refused  to  relinquish  my  alligator  bag,  and  had  turned 
over  my  other  traps  to  the  porter.  It  was  clear  enough 
then.  I  was  simply  a  victim  of  the  usual  sleeping-car 
robbery.  I  was  in  a  lather  of  perspiration  by  that  time : 
the  lady  down  the  car  was  still  dangling  and  talking 
about  it :  still  nearer  a  feminine  vo'ce  was  giving  quick 
orders  in  French,  presumably  to  a  maid.  The  porter 
was  on  his  knees,  looking  under  the  berth. 

"Not  there,  sir,"  he  said,  dusting  his  knees.  He  was 
visibly  more  cheerful,  having  been  absolved  of  respon- 
sibility. "Reckon  it  was  taken  while  you  was  wander- 
in'  around  the  car  last  night." 

"I'll  give  you  fifty  dollars  if  you  find  it,"  I  said.  "A 
hundred.  Reach  up  my  shoes  and  I'll — " 

I  stopped  abruptly.  My  eyes  were  fixed  in  stupefied 
amazement  on  a  coat  that  hung  from  a  hook  at  the 


34       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

foot  of  my  berth.  From  the  coat  they  traveled,  dazed, 
to  the  soft-bosomed  shirt  beside  it,  and  from  there  to 
the  collar  and  cravat  in  the  net  hammock  across  the 
windows. 

"A  hundred !"  the  porter  repeated,  showing  his  teeth. 
But  I  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  pointed  to  the  foot 
of  the  berth. 

"What — what  color's  that  coat  ?"  I  asked  unsteadily. 

"Gray,  sir."     His  tone  was  one  of  gentle  reproof. 

"And — the  trousers?" 

He  reached  over  and  held  up  one  creased  leg. 
"Gray,  too,"  he  grinned. 

"Gray!"  I  could  not  believe  even  his  corroboration 
of  my  own  eyes.  "But  my  clothes  were  blue!"  The 
porter  was  amused:  he  dived  under  the  curtains  and 
brought  up  a  pair  of  shoes.  "Your  shoes,  sir,"  he 
said  with  a  flourish.  "Reckon  you've  been  dreaming, 
sir." 

Now,  there  are  two  things  I  always  avoid  in  my 
dress — possibly  an  idiosyncrasy  of  my  bachelor  exis- 
tence. These  tabooed  articles  are  red  neckties  and  tan 
shoes.  And  not  only  were  the  shoes  the  porter  lifted 
from  the  floor  of  a  gorgeous  shade  of  yellow,  but  the 
scarf  which  was  run  through  the  turned  over  collar 
was  a  gaudy  red.  It  took  a  full  minute  for  the  real 
import  of  things  to  penetrate  my  dazed  intelligence. 
Then  I  gave  a  vindictive  kick  at  the  offending  ensemble. 

"They're  not  mine,  any  of  them,"  I  snarled.  "They 
are  some  other  fellow's.  I'll  sit  here  until  I  take  root 
before  I  put  them  on." 


ACROSS  THE  AISLE  35 

"They're  nice  lookin'  clothes,"  the  porter  put  in, 
eying  the  red  tie  with  appreciation.  "Ain't  everybody 
would  have  left  you  anything." 

"Call  the  conductor,"  I  said  shortly.  Then  a  possible 
explanation  occurred  to  me.  "Oh,  porter — what's  the 
number  of  this  berth?" 

"Seven,  sir.     If  you  cain't  wear  those  shoes — " 

"Seven!"  In  my  relief  I  almost  shouted  it. 
"Why,  then,  it's  simple  enough.  I'm  in  the  wrong 
berth,  that's  all.  My  berth  is  nine.  Only — where  the 
deuce  is  the  man  who  belongs  here?" 

"Likely  in  nine,  sir."  The  darky  was  enjoying  him- 
self. "You  and  the  other  gentleman  just  got  mixed  in 
the  night.  That's  all,  sir."  It  was  clear  that  he  thought 
I  had  been  drinking. 

I  drew  a  long  breath.  Of  course,  that  was  the  expla- 
nation. This  was  number  seven's  berth,  that  was  his 
soft  hat,  this  his  umbrella,  his  coat,  his  bag.  My  rage 
turned  to  irritation  at  myself. 

The  porter  went  to  the  next  berth  and  I  could  hear 
his  softly  insinuating  voice.  "Time  to  get  up,  sir.  Are 
you  awake?  Time  to  get  up." 

There  was  no  response  from  number  nine.  I  guessed 
that  he  had  opened  the  curtains  and  was  looking  in. 
Then  he  came  back. 

"Number  nine's  empty,"  he  said. 

"Empty!  Do  you  mean  my  clothes  aren't  there?" 
I  demanded.  "My  valise  ?  Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?" 

"You  doan'  give  me  time,"  he  retorted,  "There  ain't 
nothin'  there.  But  it's  been  slept  in." 


36       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

The  disappointment  was  the  greater  for  my  few  mo- 
ments of  hope.  I  sat  up  in  a  white  fury  and  put  on 
the  clothes  that  had  been  left  me.  Then,  still  raging, 
I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  berth  and  put  on  the  obnoxious 
tan  shoes.  The  porter,  called  to  his  duties,  made  little 
excursions  back  to  me,  to  offer  assistance  and  to 
chuckle  at  my  discomfiture.  He  stood  by,  outwardly 
decorous,  but  with  little  irritating  grins  of  amusement 
around  his  mouth,  when  I  finally  emerged  with  the  red 
tie  in  my  hand. 

"Bet  the  owner  of  those  clothes  didn't  become  them 
any  more  than  you  do,"  he  said,  as  he  plied  the  ubiqui- 
tous whisk  broom. 

"When  I  get  the  owner  of  these  clothes,"  I  retorted 
grimly,  "he  will  need  a  shroud.  Where's  the  con- 
ductor ?" 

Th-i  conductor  was  coming,  he  assured  me ;  also  that 
there  was  no  bag  answering  the  description  of  mine  on 
the  car.  I  slammed  my  way  to  the  dressing-room, 
washed,  choked  my  fifteen  and  a  half  neck  into  a  fif- 
tesm  collar,  and  was  back  again  in  less  than  five 
minutes.  The  car,  as  well  as  its  occupants,  was  grad- 
ually taking  on  a  daylight  appearance.  I  hobbled  in, 
for  one  of  the  shoes  was  abominably  tight,  and  found 
myself  facing  a  young  woman  in  blue  with  an  unfor- 
getable  face.  ("Three  women  already."  McKnight 
says :  "That's  going  some,  even  if  you  don't  count  the 
Gilmore  nurse.")  She  stood,  half-turned  toward  me, 
one  hand  idly  drooping,  the  other  steadying  her  as  she 
gazed  out  at  the  flying  landscape.  I  had  an  instant 


ACROSS  THE  AISLE  37 

impression  that  I  had  met  her  somewhere,  under  dif- 
ferent circumstances,  more  cheerful  ones,  I  thought, 
for  the  girl's  dejection  now  was  evident.  Beside  her, 
sitting  down,  a  small  dark  woman,  considerably  older, 
was  talking  in  a  rapid  undertone.  The  girl  nodded  in- 
differently now  and  then.  I  fancied,  although  I  was 
not  sure,  that  my  appearance  brought  a  startled  look 
into  the  young  woman's  face.  I  sat  down  and,  hands 
thrust  deep  into  the  other  man's  pockets,  stared  ruefully 
at  the  other  man's  shoes. 

The  stage  was  set.  In  a  moment  the  curtain  was 
going  up  on  the  first  act  of  the  play.  And  for  a 
while  we  would  all  say  our  little  speeches  and  sing  our 
little  songs,  and  I,  the  villian,  would  hold  center  stage 
while  the  gallery  hissed. 

The  porter  was  standing  beside  lower  ten.  He 
had  reached  in  and  was  knocking  valiantly.  But  his 
efforts  met  with  no  response.  He  winked  at  me  over 
his  shoulder ;  then  he  unfastened  the  curtains  and  bent 
forward.  Behind  him,  I  saw  him  stiffen,  heard  his 
muttered  exclamation,  saw  the  bluish  pallor  that  spread 
over  his  face  and  neck.  As  he  retreated  a  step  the 
interior  of  lower  ten  lay  open  to  the  day. 

The  man  in  it  was  on  his  back,  the  early  morning 
sun  striking  full  on  his  upturned  face.  But  the  light 
did  not  disturb  him.  A  small  stain  of  red  dyed  the 
front  of  his  night  clothes  and  trailed  across  the  sheet : 
his  half -open  eyes  were  fixed,  without  seeing,  on  the 
shining  wood  above. 


38       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  grasped  the  porter's  shaking  shoulders  and  stared 
down  to  where  the  train  imparted  to  the  body  a  grisly 
suggestion  of  motion.  "Good  Lord,"  I  gasped.  "The 
man's  been  murdered  I" 


CHAPTER  IV 

NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE 

A  FTERWARDS,  when  I  tried  to  recall  our  dis- 
/"V  covery  of  the  body  in  lower  ten,  I  found  that  my 
most  vivid  impression  was  not  that  made  by  the  revela- 
tion of  the  opened  curtain.  I  had  an  instantaneous  pic- 
ture of  a  slender  blue-gowned  girl  who  seemed  to  sense 
my  words  rather  than  hear  them,  of  two  small  hands 
that  clutched  desperately  at  the  seat  beside  them.  The 
girl  in  the  aisle  stood,  bent  toward  us,  perplexity  and 
alarm  fighting  in  her  face. 

With  twitching  hands  the  porter  attempted  to  draw 
the  curtains  together.  Then  in  a  paralysis  of  shock,  he 
collapsed  on  the  edge  of  my  berth  and  sat  there  sway- 
ing. In  my  excitement  I  shook  him. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  keep  your  nerve,  man,"  I  said 
bruskly.  "You'll  have  every  woman  in  the  car  in  hys- 
terics. And  if  you  do,  you'll  wish  you  could  change 
places  with  the  man  in  there."  He  rolled  his  eyes. 

A  man  near,  who  had  been  reading  last  night's  paper, 
dropped  it  quickly  and  tiptoed  toward  us.  He  peered 
between  the  partly  open  curtains,  closed  them  quietly 
and  went  back,  ostentatiously  solemn,  to  his  seat.  The 
very  crackle  with  which  he  opened  his  paper  added  to 
the  bursting  curiosity  of  the  car.  For  the  passengers 
knew  that  something  was  amiss :  I  was  conscious  of  a 
sudden  tension. 

39 


40       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

With  the  curtains  closed  the  porter  was  more  him- 
self;  he  wiped  his  lips  with  a  handkerchief  and  stood 
erect. 

"It's  my  last  trip  in  this  car,"  he  remarked  heavily. 
"There's  something  wrong  with  that  berth.  Last  trip 
the  woman  in  it  took  an  overdose  of  some  sleeping 
stuff,  and  we  found  her,  jes'  like  that,  dead!  And  it 
ain't  more'n  three  months  now  since  there  was  twins 
born  in  that  very  spot.  No,  sir,  it  ain't  natural." 

At  that  moment  a  thin  man  with  prominent  eyes  and 
a  spare  grayish  goatee  creaked  up  the  aisle  and  paused 
beside  me. 

"Porter  sick?"  he  inquired,  taking  in  with  a  profes- 
sional eye  the  porter's  horror-struck  face,  my  own  ex- 
citement and  the  slightly  gaping  curtains  of  lower  ten. 
He  reached  for  the  darky's  pulse  and  pulled  out  an  old- 
fashioned  gold  watch. 

_"Hm!     Only  fifty!     What's  the  matter?     Had  a 
shock?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  for  the  porter.  "We've  both  had 
one.  If  you  are  a  doctor,  I  wish  you  would  look  at  the 
man  in  the  berth  across,  lower  ten.  I'm  afraid  it's  too 
late,  but  I'm  not  experienced  in  such  matters." 

Together  we  opened  the  curtains,  and  the  doctor, 
bending  down,  gave  a  comprehensive  glance  that  took 
in  the  rolling  head,  the  relaxed  jaw,  the  ugly  stain  on 
the  sheet.  The  examination  needed  only  a  moment. 
Death  was  written  in  the  clear  white  of  the  nostrils,  the 
colorless  lips,  the  smoothing  away  of  the  sinister  lines 
of  the  night  before.  With  its  new  dignity  the  face  was 


NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE      41 

not  unhandsome :  the  gray  hair  was  still  plentiful,  the 
features  strong  and  well  cut. 

The  doctor  straightened  himself  and  turned  to  me. 
"Dead  for  some  time,"  he  said,  running  a  professional 
finger  over  the  stains.  ' These  are  dry  and  darkened, 
you  see,  and  rigor  mortis  is  well  established.  A  friend 
of  yours?" 

"I  don't  know  him  at  all,"  I  replied.  "Never  saw 
him  but  once  before." 

"Then  you  don't  know  if  he  is  traveling  alone?" 

"No,  he  was  not — that  is,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  him,"  I  corrected  myself.  It  was  my  first  blun- 
der: the  doctor  glanced  up  at  me  quickly  and  then 
turned  his  attention  again  to  the  body.  Like  a  flash 
there  had  come  to  me  the  vision  of  the  woman  with 
the  bronze  hair  and  the  tragic  face,  whom  I  had  sur- 
prised in  the  vestibule  between  the  cars,  somewhere 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  I  had  acted  on  my 
first  impulse — the  masculine  one  of  shielding  a  woman. 

The  doctor  had  unfastened  the  coat  of  the  striped 
pajamas  and  exposed  the  dead  man's  chest.  On  the 
left  side  was  a  small  punctured  wound  of  insignificant 
size. 

"Very  neatly  done,"  the  doctor  said  with  apprecia- 
tion. "Couldn't  have  done  it  better  myself.  Right 
through  the  intercostal  space:  no  time  even  to  grunt." 

"Isn't  the  heart  around  there  somewhere?"  I  asked. 
The  medical  man  turned  toward  me  and  smiled  aus- 
terely. 

"That's  where  it  belongs,  just  under  that  puncture, 


42       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

when  it  isn't  gadding  around  in  a  man's  throat  or  his 
boots." 

I  had  a  new  respect  for  the  doctor,  for  any  one 
indeed  who  could  crack  even  a  feeble  joke  under  such 
circumstances,  or  who  could  run  an  impersonal  finger 
over  that  wound  and  those  stains.  Odd  how  a  healthy, 
normal  man  holds  the  medical  profession  in  half  con- 
temptous  regard  until  he  gets  sick,  or  an  emergency  like 
this  arises,  and  then  turns  meekly  to  the  man  who 
knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  his  mortal  tenement,  takes 
his  pills  or  his  patronage,  ties  to  him  like  a  rudderless 
ship  in  a  gale. 

"Suicide,  is  it,  doctor?"  I  asked. 

He  stood  erect,  after  drawing  the  bed-clothing  over 
the  face,  and,  taking  off  his  glasses,  he  wiped  them 
slowly. 

"No,  it  is  not  suicide,"  he  announced  decisively.  "It 
is  murder." 

Of  course,  I  had  expected  that,  but  the  word  itself 
brought  a  shiver.  I  was  just  a  bit  dizzy.  Curious 
faces  through  the  car  were  turned  toward  us,  and  I 
could  hear  the  porter  behind  me  breathing  audibly.  A 
stout  woman  in  negligee  came  down  the  aisle  and 
querulously  confronted  the  porter.  She  wore  a  pink 
dressing- jacket  and  carried  portions  of  her  clothing. 

"Porter,"  she  began,  in  the  voice  of  the  lady  who 
had  "dangled,"  "is  there  a  rule  of  this  company  that 
will  allow  a  woman  to  occupy  the  dressing-room  for 
one  hour  and  curl  her  hair  with  an  alcohol  lamp  while 


NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE      43 

respectable  people  haven't  a  place  where  they  can  hook 
their — " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  stared  into  lower  ten.  Her 
shining  pink  cheeks  grew  pasty,  her  jaw  fell.  I  re- 
member trying  to  think  of  something  to  say,  and  of 
saying  nothing  at  all.  Then — she  had  buried  her  eyes 
in  the  nondescript  garments  that  hung  from  her  arm 
and  tottered  back  the  way  she  had  come.  Slowly  a 
little  knot  of  men  gathered  around  us,  silent  for  the 
most  part.  The  doctor  was  making  a  search  of  the 
berth  when  the  conductor  elbowed  his  way  through, 
followed  by  the  inquisitive  man,  who  had  evidently 
summoned  him.  I  had  lost  sight,  for  a  time,  of  the 
girl  in  blue. 

"Do  it  himself  ?"  the  conductor  queried,  after  a  busi- 
nesslike glance  at  the  body. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  the  doctor  asserted.  "There's  no 
weapon  here,  and  the  window  is  closed.  He  couldn't 
have  thrown  it  out,  and  he  didn't  swallow  it.  What 
on  earth  are  you  looking  for,  man?" 

Some  one  was  on  the  floor  at  our  feet,  face  down, 
head  peering  under  the  berth.  Now  he  got  up  without 
apology,  revealing  the  man  who  had  summoned  the  con- 
ductor. He  was  dusty,  alert,  cheerful,  and  he  dragged 
up  with  him  the  dead  man's  suit-case.  The  sight  of  it 
brought  back  to  me  at  once  my  own  predicament. 

"I  don't  know  whether  there's  any  connection  or  not, 
conductor,"  I  said,  "but  I  am  a  victim,  too,  in  less 
degree;  I've  been  robbed  of  everything  I  possess,  ex- 
cept a  red  and  yellow  bath-robe.  I  happened  to  be 


44       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

wearing  the  bath-robe,  which  was  probably  the  reason 
the  thief  overlooked  it." 

There  was  a  fresh  murmur  in  the  crowd.  Some- 
body laughed  nervously.  The  conductor  was  irritated. 

"I  can't  bother  with  that  now,"  he  snarled.  "The 
railroad  company  is  responsible  for  transportation,  not 
for  clothes,  jewelry  and  morals.  If  people  want  to 
be  stabbed  and  robbed  in  the  company's  cars,  it's  their 
affair.  Why  didn't  you  sleep  in  your  clothes?  I  do." 

I  took  an  angry  step  forward.  Then  somebody 
touched  my  arm,  and  I  unclenched  my  fist.  I  could 
understand  the  conductor's  position,  and  beside,  in  the 
law,  I  had  been  guilty  myself  of  contributory  negli- 
gence. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  make  you  responsible,"  I  protested 
as  amiably  as  I  could,  "and  I  believe  the  clothes  the 
thief  left  are  as  good  as  my  own.  They  are  certainly 
newer.  But  my  valise  contained  valuable  papers^ ^and 
it  is  to  your  interest  as  well  as  mine  to  find  the  man 
who  stole  it." 

"Why,  of  course,"  the  conductor  said  shrewdly. 
"Find  the  man  who  skipped  out  with  this  gentleman's 
clothes,  and  you've  probably  got  the  murderer." 

"I  went  to  bed  in  lower  nine,"  I  said,  my  mind  full 
again  of  my  lost  papers,  "and  I  wakened  in  number 
seven.  I  was  up  in  the  night  prowling  around,  as  T 
was  unable  to  sleep,  and  I  must  have  gone  back  to  the 
wrong  berth.  Anyhow,  until  the  porter  wakened  me 
this  morning  I  knew  nothing  of  my  mistake.  In  the 
interval  the  thief — murderer,  too,  perhaps — must  have 


NUMBERS  SEVEN  AND  NINE      45 

come  back,  discovered  my  error,  and  taken  advantage 
of  it  to  further  his  escape." 

The  inquisitive  man  looked  at  me  from  between 
narrowed  eyelids,  ferret-like. 

"Did  any  one  on  the  train  suspect  you  of  having 
valuable  papers?"  he  inquired.  The  crowd  was  listen- 
ing intently. 

"No  one,"  I  answered  promptly  and  positively. 

The  doctor  was  investigating  the  murdered  man's 
effects.  The  pockets  of  his  trousers  contained  the 
usual  miscellany  of  keys  and  small  change,  while  in  his 
hip  pocket  was  found  a  small  pearl-handled  revolver 
of  the  type  women  usually  keep  around.  A  gold  watch 
with  a  Masonic  charm  had  slid  down  between  the 
mattress  and  the  window,  while  a  showy  diamond  stud 
was  still  fastened  in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt.  Taken  as 
a  whole,  the  personal  belongings  were  those  of  a  man 
of  some  means,  but  without  any  particular  degree  of 
breeding.  The  doctor  heaped  them  together. 

"Either  robbery  was  not  the  motive,"  he  reflected, 
"or  the  thief  overlooked  these  things  in  his  hurry." 

The  latter  hypothesis  seemed  the  more  tenable, 
when,  after  a  thorough  search,  we  found  no  pocket- 
book  and  less  than  a  dollar  in  small  change. 

The  suit-case  gave  no  clue.  It  contained  one  empty 
leather-covered  flask  and  a  pint  bottle,  also  empty, 
a  change  of  linen  and  some  collars  with  the  laundry 
mark,  S.  H.  In  the  leather  tag  on  the  handle  was 
a  card  with  the  name  Simon  Harrington,  Pittsburg. 

The  conductor  sat  down  on  my  unmade  berth,  across, 


46       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

and  made  an  entry  of  the  name  and  address.  Then,  on 
an  old  envelope,  he  wrote  a  few  words  and  gave  it  to 
the  porter,  who  disappeared. 

"I  guess  that's  all  I  can  do,"  he  said.  "I've  had 
enough  trouble  this  trip  to  last  for  a  year.  They  don't 
need  a  conductor  on  these  trains  any  more;  what  they 
ought  to  have  is  a  sheriff  and  a  posse." 

The  porter  from  the  next  car  came  in  and  whispered 
to  him.  The  conductor  rose  unhappily. 

"Next  car's  caught  the  disease,"  he  grumbled. 
"Doctor,  a  woman  back  there  has  got  mumps  or  bu- 
bonic plague,  or  something.  Will  you  come  back?" 

The  strange  porter  stood  aside. 

"Lady  about  the  middle  of  the  car,"  he  said,  "in 
black,  sir,  with  queer-looking  hair — sort  of  copper 
color,  I  think,  sir&" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR 

WITH  the  departure  of  the  conductor  and  the 
doctor,  the  group  around  lower  ten  broke  up, 
to  re-form  in  smaller  knots  through  the  car.  The 
porter  remained  on  guard.  With  something  of  relief 
I  sank  into  a  seat.  I  wanted  to  think,  to  try  to  remem- 
ber the  details  of  the  previous  night.  But  my  inquisi- 
tive acquaintance  had  other  intentions.  He  came  up 
and  sat  down  beside  me.  Like  the  conductor,  he  had 
taken  notes  of  the  dead  man's  belongings,  his  name, 
address,  clothing  and  the  general  circumstances  of  the 
crime.  Now  with  his  little  note-book  open  before  him, 
he  prepared  to  enjoy  the  minor  sensation  of  the  rob- 
bery. 

"And  now  for  the  second  victim,"  he  began  cheer- 
fully. "What  is  your  name  and  address,  please?" 

I  eyed  him  with  suspicion. 

"I  have  lost  everything  but  my  name  and  address," 
I  parried.  "What  do  you  want  them  for?  Publi- 
cation?" 

"Oh,  no;  dear,  no!"  he  said,  shocked  at  my  mis- 
apprehension. "Merely  for  my  own  enlightenment 
I  like  to  gather  data  of  this  kind  and  draw  my  own 
conclusions.  Most  interesting  and  engrossing.  Once 
or  twice  I  have  forestalled  the  results  of  police  in- 
vestigation— but  entirely  for  my  own  amusement." 
47 


48       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  nodded  tolerantly.  Most  of  us  have  hobbies;  I 
knew  a  man  once  who  carried  his  handkerchief  up 
his  sleeve  and  had  a  mania  for  old  colored  prints  cut 
out  of  Godey's  Lady's  Book. 

"I  use  that  inductive  method  originated  by  Poe  and 
followed  since  with  such  success  by  Conan  Doyle. 
Have  you  ever  read  Gaboriau?  Ah,  you  have  missed  a 
treat,  indeed.  And  now,  to  get  down  to  business, 
what  is  the  name  of  our  escaped  thief  and  probable 
murderer?" 

"How  on  earth  do  I  know?"  I  demanded  impa- 
tiently. "He  didn't  write  it  in  blood  anywhere,  did 
he?" 

The  little  man  looked  hurt  and  disappointed. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  "that  the  pockets 
of  those  clothes  are  entirely  empty?" 

The  pockets!  In  the  excitement  I  had  forgotten 
entirely  the  sealskin  grip  which  the  porter  now  sat 
at  my  feet,  and  I  had  not  investigated  the  pockets 
at  all.  With  the  inquisitive  man's  pencil  taking  note 
of  everything  that  I  found,  I  emptied  them  on  the 
opposite  seat. 

Upper  left-hand  waist-coat,  two  lead  pencils  and 
a  fountain  pen ;  lower  right  waist-coat,  match-box  and 
a  small  stamp  book;  right-hand  pocket  coat,  pair  of 
gray  suede  gloves,  new,  size  seven  and  a  half;  left- 
hand  pocket,  gun-metal  cigarette  case  studded  with 
pearls,  half-full  of  Egyptian  cigarettes.  The  trousers 
pockets  contained  a  gold  penknife,  a  small  amount  of 


WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR       49 

money  in  bills  and  change,  and  a  handkerchief  with 
the  initial  "S"  on  it. 

Further  search  through  the  coat  discovered  a  card- 
case  with  cards  bearing  the  name  Henry  Pinckney 
Sullivan,  and  a  leather  flask  with  gold  mountings, 
filled  with  what  seemed  to  be  very  fair  whisky,  and 
monogrammed  H.  P.  S. 

"His  name  evidently  is  Henry  Pinckney  Sullivan," 
said  the  cheerful  follower  of  Poe,  as  he  wrote  it 
down.  "Address  as  yet  unknown.  Blond,  probably. 
Have  you  noticed  that  it  is  almost  always  the  blond 
men  who  affect  a  very  light  gray,  with  a  touch  of  red 
in  the  scarf?  Fact,  I  assure  you.  I  kept  a  record 
once  of  the  summer  attire  of  men,  and  ninety  per 
cent,  followed  my  rule.  Dark  men  like  you  affect 
navy  blue,  or  brown." 

In  spite  of  myself  I  was  amused  at  the  man's 
shrewdness. 

"Yes;  the  suit  he  took  was  dark — a  blue,"  I  said. 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled  at  me  delightedly. 

"Then  you  wore  black  shoes,  not  tan,"  he  said, 
with  a  glance  at  the  aggressive  yellow  ones  I  wore. 

"Right  again,"  I  acknowledged.  "Black  low  shoes 
and  black  embroidered  hose.  If  you  keep  on  you'll 
have  a  motive  for  the  crime,  and  the  murderer's  pres- 
ent place  of  hiding.  And  if  you  come  back  to  the 
smoker  with  me,  I'll  give  you  an  opportunity  to 
judge  if  he  knew  good  whisky  from  bad." 

I  put  the  articles  from  the  pockets  back  again  and 


50       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

got  up.  "I  wonder  if  there  is  a  diner  on?"  I  said. 
"I  need  something  sustaining  after  all  this." 

I  was  conscious  then  of  some  one  at  my  elbow. 
I  turned  to  see  the  young  woman  whose  face  was 
so  vaguely  familiar.  In  the  very  act  of  speaking  she 
drew  back  suddenly  and  colored. 

"Oh, — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "I — 
thought  you  were — some  one  else."  She  was  looking 
in  a  puzzled  fashion  at  my  coat.  I  felt  all  the  cring- 
ing guilt  of  a  man  who  has  accidentally  picked  up  the 
wrong  umbrella:  my  borrowed  collar  sat  tight  on 
my  neck. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said  idiotically.  "I'm  sorry,  but — 
I'm  not."  I  have  learned  since  that  she  has  bright 
brown  hair,  with  a  loose  wave  in  it  that  drops  over 
her  ears,  and  dark  blue  eyes  with  black  lashes  and — 
but  what  does  it  matter?  One  enjoys  a  picture  as  a 
whole :  not  as  the  sum  of  its  parts. 

She  saw  the  flask  then,  and  her  errand  came  back  to 
her.  "One  of  the  ladies  at  the  end  of  car  has  fainted," 
she  explained.  "I  thought  perhaps  a  stimulant — " 

I  picked  up  the  flask  at  once  and  followed  my  guide 
down  the  aisle.  Two  or  three  women  were  working 
over  the  woman  who  had  fainted.  They  had  opened 
her  collar  and  taken  out  her  hairpins,  whatever  good 
that  might  do.  The  stout  woman  was  vigorously  rub- 
bing her  wrists,  with  the  idea,  no  doubt,  of  working 
up  her  pulse!  The  unconscious  woman  was  the  one 
for  whom  I  had  secured  lower  eleven  at  the  station. 

I  poured  a  little  liquor  in  a  bungling  masculine 


WOMAN  IN  THE  NEXT  CAR      51 

fashion  between  her  lips  as  she  leaned  back,  with  closed 
eyes.  She  choked,  coughed,  and  rallied  somewhat. 

"Poor  thing,"  said  the  stout  lady.  "As  she  lies 
back  that  way  I  could  almost  think  it  was  my  mother  ; 
she  used  to  faint  so  much." 

"It  would  make  anybody  faint,"  chimed  in  another. 
"Murder  and  robbery  in  one  night  and  on  one  car. 
I'm  thankful  I  always  wear  my  rings  in  a  bag  around 
my  neck — even  if  they  do  get  under  me  and  keep  me 
awake." 

The  girl  in  blue  was  looking  at  us  with  wide,  startled 
eyes.  I  saw  her  pale  a  little,  saw  the  quick,  apprehen- 
sive glance  which  she  threw  at  her  traveling  com- 
panion, the  small  woman  I  had  noticed  before.  There 
was  an  exchange — almost  a  clash — of  glances.  The 
small  woman  frowned.  That  was  all.  I  turned  my 
attention  again  to  my  patient. 

She  had  revived  somewhat,  and  now  she  asked  to 
have  the  window  opened.  The  train  had  stopped 
again  and  the  car  was  oppressively  hot.  People  around 
were  looking  at  their  watches  and  grumbling  over  the 
delay.  The  doctor  bustled  in  with  a  remark  about 
its  being  his  busy  day.  The  amateur  detective  and 
the  porter  together  mounted  guard  over  lower  ten. 
Outside  the  heat  rose  in  shimmering  waves  from  the 
tracks:  the  very  wood  of  the  car  was  hot  to  touch. 
A  Camberwell  Beauty  darted  through  the  open  door 
and  made  its  way,  in  erratic  plunges,  great  wings 
waving,  down  the  sunny  aisle.  All  around  lay  the 
peace  of  harvested  fields,  the  quiet  of  the  country. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  GIRL  IN   BLUE 

I   WAS    growing   more   and   more   irritable.     The 
thought  of  what  the  loss  of  the  notes  meant  was 
fast  crowding  the  murder  to  the  back  of  my  mind. 
The  forced  inaction  was  intolerable. 

The  porter  had  reported  no  bag  answering  the  de- 
scription of  mine  on  the  train,  but  I  was  disposed 
to  make  my  own  investigation.  I  made  a  tour  of 
the  cars,  scrutinizing  every  variety  of  hand  luggage, 
ranging  from  luxurious  English  bags  with  gold  mount- 
ings to  the  wicker  nondescripts  of  the  day  coach  at 
the  rear.  I  was  not  alone  in  my  quest,  for  the  girl 
in  blue  was  just  ahead  of  me.  Car  by  car  she  pre- 
ceded me  through  the  train,  unconscious  that  I  waS 
behind  her,  looking  at  each  passenger  as  she  passed. 
I  fancied  the  proceeding  was  distasteful,  but  that  she 
had  determined  on  a  course  and  was  carrying  it 
through.  We  reached  the  end  of  the  train  almost 
together — empty-handed,  both  of  us. 

The  girl  went  out  to  the  platform.  When  she  saw 
me  she  moved  aside,  and  I  stepped  out  beside  her. 
Behind  us  the  track  curved  sharply;  the  early  sun- 
shine threw  the  train,  in  long  black  shadow,  over  the 
hot  earth.  Forward  somewhere  they  were  hammer- 
ing. The  girl  said  nothing,  but  her  profile  was  strained 
and  anxious. 

52 


THE  GIRL  IN  BLUE  53 

"I — if  you  have  lost  anything,"  I  began,  "I  wish 
you  would  let  me  try  to  help.  Not  that  my  own  suc- 
cess is  anything  to  boast  of." 

She  hardly  glanced  at  me.     It  was  not  flattering. 

"I  have  not  been  robbed,  if  that  is  what  you  mean," 
she  replied  quietly.  "I  am — perplexed.  That  is  all." 

There  was  nothing  to  say  to  that.  I  lifted  my  hat — 
the  other  fellow's  hat — and  turned  to  go  back  to  my 
car.  Two  or  three  members  of  the  train  crew,  in- 
cluding the  conductor,  were  standing  in  the  shadow 
talking.  And  at  that  moment,  from  a  farm-house 
near  came  the  swift  clang  of  the  breakfast  bell,  call- 
ing in  the  hands  from  barn  and  pasture.  I  turned 
back  to  the  girl. 

"We  may  be  here  for  an  hour,"  I  said,  "and  there 
is  no  buffet  car  on.  If  I  remember  my  youth, 
that  bell  means  ham  and  eggs  and  country  butter 
and  coffee.  If  you  care  to  run  the  risk — " 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  she  said,  "but  perhaps  a  cup 
of  coffee — dear  me,  I  believe  I  am  hungry,"  she  fin- 
ished. "Only — "  She  glanced  back  of  her. 

"I  can  bring  your  companion,"  I  suggested,  without 
enthusiasm.  But  the  young  woman  shook  her  head. 

"She  is  not  hungry,"  she  objected,  "and  she  is  very 
— well,  I  know  she  wouldn't  come.  Do  you  suppose 
we  could  make  it  if  we  run?" 

"I  haven't  any  idea,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "Any  old 
train  would  be  better  than  this  one,  if  it  does  leave 
us  behind." 

"Yes.     Any  train  would  be  better  than  this  one," 


54       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN  I 

she  repeated  gravely.  I  found  myself  watching  her 
changing  expression.  I  had  spoken  two  dozen  words 
to  her  and  already  I  felt  that  I  knew  the  lights  and 
shades  in  her  voice, — I,  who  had  always  knowa  how  a 
woman  rode  to  hounds,  and  who  never  could  have  told 
the  color  of  her  hair. 

I  stepped  down  on  the  ties  and  turned  to  assist  her, 
and  together  we  walked  back  to  where  the  conductor 
and  the  porter  from  our  car  were  in  close  conversa- 
tion. Instinctively  my  hand  went  to  my  cigarette 
pocket  and  came  out  empty.  She  saw  the  gesture. 

"If  you  want  to  smoke,  you  may,"  she  said.  "I 
have  a  big  cousin  who  smokes  all  the  time.  He  says 
I  am  'kippered.'  " 

I  drew  out  the  gun-metal  cigarette  case  and  opened 
it.  But  this  most  commonplace  action  had  an  ex- 
traordinary result:  the  girl  beside  me  stopped  dead 
still  and  stood  staring  at  it  with  fascinated  eyes. 

"Is — where  did  you  get  that?"  she  demanded,  with 
a  catch  in  her  voice ;  her  gaze  still  fixed  on  the  cigarette 
case. 

"Then  you  haven't  heard  the  rest  of  the  tragedy?" 
I  asked,  holding  out  the  case.  "It's  frightfully  bad 
luck  for  me,  but  it  makes  a  good  story.  You  see — " 

At  that  moment  the  conductor  and  porter  ceased 
their  colloquy.  The  conductor  came  directly  toward 
me,  tugging  as  he  came  at  his  bristling  gray  mustache. 

"I  would  like  to  talk  to  you  in  the  car,"  he  said 
to  me,  with  a  curious  glance  at  the  young  lady. 

"Can't  it  wait?"  I  objected.     "We  are  on  our  way 


THE  GIRL  IN  BLUE 55 

to  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  slice  of  bacon.  Be  merciful, 
as  you  are  powerful." 

"I'm  afraid  the  breakfast  will  have  to  wait,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  won't  keep  you  long."  There  was  a  note 
of  authority  in  his  voice  which  I  resented;  but,  after 
all,  the  circumstances  were  unusual. 

"We'll  have  to  defer  that  cup  of  coffee  for  a  while," 
I  said  to  the  girl;  "but  don't  despair;  there's  break- 
fast somewhere." 

As  we  entered  the  car,  she  stood  aside,  but  I  felt 
rather  than  saw  that  she  followed  us.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  a  half  dozen  men  gathered  around  the 
berth  in  which  I  had  wakened,  number  seven.  It  had 
not  yet  been  made  up. 

As  we  passed  along  the  aisle,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
new  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  passengers.  The 
tall  woman  who  had  fainted  was  searching  my  face 
with  narrowed  eyes,  while  the  stout  woman  of  the 
kindly  heart  avoided  my  gaze,  and  pretended  to  look 
out  the  window. 

As  we  pushed  our  way  through  the  group,  I  fancied 
that  it  closed  around  me  ominously.  The  conductor 
said  nothing,  but  led  the  way  without  ceremony  to  the 
side  of  the  berth. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  inquired.  I  was  puzzled, 
but  not  apprehensive.  "Have  you  some  of  my  things  ? 
I'd  be  thankful  even  for  my  shoes;  these  are  con- 
foundedly tight." 

Nobody  spoke,  and  I  fell  silent,  too.  For  one  of 
the  pillows  had  been  turned  over,  and  the  under  side 


56       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

of  the  white  case  was  streaked  with  brownish  stains. 
I  think  it  was  a  perceptible  time  before  I  realized  that 
the  stains  were  blood,  and  that  the  faces  around  were 
filled  with  suspicion  and  distrust. 

"Why,  it — that  looks  like  blood,"  I  said  vacuously. 
There  was  an  incessant  pounding  in  my  ears,  and  the 
conductor's  voice  came  from  far  off. 

"It  is  blood,"  he  asserted  grimly. 

I  looked  around  with  a  dizzy  attempt  at  nonchalance. 
"Even  if  it  is,"  I  remonstrated,  "surely  you  don't  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  I  know  anything  about  it!" 

The  amateur  detective  elbowed  his  way  in.  He  had 
a  scrap  of  transparent  paper  in  his  hand,  and  a  pencil. 

"I  would  like  permission  to  trace  the  stains,"  he 
began  eagerly.  "Also" — to  me — "if  you  will  kindly 
jab  your  finger  with  a  pin — needle — anything — " 

"If  you  don't  keep  out  of  this,"  the  conductor  said 
savagely,  "I  will  do  some  jabbing  myself.  As  for 
you,  sir — "  he  turned  to  me.  I  was  absolutely  inno- 
cent, but  I  knew  that  I  presented  a  typical  picture  of 
guilt;  I  was  covered  with  cold  sweat,  and  the  pound- 
ing in  my  ears  kept  up  dizzily.  "As  for  you,  sir — " 

The  irrepressible  amateur  detective  made  a  quick 
pounce  at  the  pillow  and  pushed  back  the  cover.  Be- 
fore our  incredulous  eyes  he  drew  out  a  narrow  steel 
dirk  which  had  been  buried  to  the  small  cross  that 
served  as  a  head. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  voices  around,  a  quick  surg- 
ing forward  of  the  crowd.  So  that  was  what  had 


THE  GIRL  IN  BLUE 57 

scratched  my  hand!  I  buried  the  wound  in  my  coat 
pocket. 

"Well,"  I  said,  trying  to  speak  naturally,  "doesn't 
that  prove  what  I  have  been  telling  you?  The  man 
who  committed  the  murder  belonged  to  this  berth,  and 
made  an  exchange  in  some  way  after  the  crime.  How 
do  you  know  he  didn't  change  the  tags  so  I  would 
come  back  to  this  berth?"  This  was  an  inspiration; 
I  was  pleased  with  it.  "That's  what  he  did,  he  changed 
the  tags,"  I  reiterated. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent  around.  The  doctor, 
who  was  standing  beside  me,  put  his  hand  on  my 
arm.  "If  this  gentleman  committed  this  crime,  and 
I  for  one  feel  sure  he  did  not,  then  who  is  the  fel- 
low who  got  away?  And  why  did  he  go?" 

"We  have  only  one  man's  word  for  that,"  the  con- 
ductor snarled.  "I've  traveled  some  in  these  cars 
myself,  and  no  one  ever  changed  berths  with  me" 

Somebody  on  the  edge  of  the  group  asserted  that 
hereafter  he  would  travel  by  daylight.  I  glanced  up 
and  caught  the  eye  of  the  girl  in  blue. 

"They  are  all  mad,"  she  said.  Her  tone  was  low, 
but  I  heard  her  distinctly.  "Don't  take  them  seri- 
ously enough  to  defend  yourself." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  I  didn't  do  it,"  I  observed 
meekly,  over  the  crowd.  "Nothing  else  is  of  any 
importance." 

The  conductor  had  pulled  out  his  note-book  again. 
"Your  name,  please,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Lawrence  Blakeley,  Washington." 


58       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Your  occupation?" 

"Attorney.  A  member  of  the  firm  of  Blakeley  and 
McKnight" 

"Mr.  Blakeley,  you  say  you  have  occupied  the  wrong 
berth  and  have  been  robbed.  Do  you  know  anything 
of  the  man  who  did  it?" 

"Only  from  what  he  left  behind,"  I  answered. 
"These  clothes—" 

"They  fit  you,"  he  said  with  quick  suspicion.  "Isn't 
that  rather  a  coincidence?  You  are  a  large  man." 

"Good  Heavens,"  I  retorted,  stung  into  fury,  "do 
I  look  like  a  man  who  would  wear  this  kind  of  a 
necktie?  Do  you  suppose  I  carry  purple  and  green 
barred  silk  handkerchiefs?  Would  any  man  in  his 
senses  wear  a  pair  of  shoes  a  full  size  too  small?" 

The  conductor  was  inclined  to  hedge.  "You  will 
have  to  grant  that  I  am  in  a  peculiar  position,"  he 
said.  "I  have  only  your  word  as  to  the  exchange 
of  berths,  and  you  understand  I  am  merely  doing 
my  duty.  Are  there  any  clues  in  the  pockets?" 

For  the  second  time  I  emptied  them  of  their  con- 
tents, which  he  noted,  *Is  that  all?"  he  finished. 
"There  was  nothing  else?" 

"Nothing." 

"That's  not  all,  sir,"  broke  in  the  porter,  stepping 
forward.  "There  was  a  small  black  satchel." 

"That's  so,"  I  exclaimed.  "I  forgot  the  bag.  I 
don't  even  know  where  it  is." 

The  easily  swayed  crowd  looked  suspicious  again. 
I've  grown  so  accustomed  to  reading  the  faces  of  a 


THE  GIRL  IN  BLUE  59 

jury,  seeing  them  swing  from  doubt  to  belief,  and  back 
again  to  doubt,  that  I  instinctively  watch  expressions. 
I  saw  that  my  forget  fulness  had  done  me  harm — that 
suspicion  was  roused  again. 

The  bag  was  found  a  couple  of  seats  away,  under 
somebody's  raincoat — another  dubious  circumstance. 
Was  I  hiding  it?  It  was  brought  to  the  berth  and 
placed  beside  the  conductor,  who  opened  it  at  once. 

It  contained  the  usual  traveling  impedimenta — - 
change  of  linen,  collars,  handkerchiefs,  a  bronze-green 
scarf,  and  a  safety  razor.  But  the  attention  of  the 
crowd  riveted  itself  on  a  flat,  Russia  leather  wallet, 
around  which  a  heavy  gum  band  was  wrapped,  and 
which  bore  in  gilt  letters  the  name  "Simon  Harring- 
ton." 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   FINE  GOLD   CHAIN 

THE  conductor  held  it  out  to  me,  his  face  sternly 
accusing. 

"Is  this  another  coincidence?"  he  asked.  "Did  the 
man  who  left  you  his  clothes  and  the  barred  silk  hand- 
kerchief and  the  tight  shoes  leave  you  the  spoil  of  the 
murder?" 

The  men  standing  around  had  drawn  off  a  little, 
and  I  saw  the  absolute  futility  of  any  remonstrance. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  fly,  who,  in  these  hygienic  days, 
finding  no  cobwebs  to  entangle  him,  is  caught  in  a 
sheet  of  fly  paper,  finds  himself  more  and  more  mired, 
and  is  finally  quiet  with  the  sticky  stillness  of  despair? 

Well,  I  was  the  fly.  I  had  seen  too  much  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  to  have  any  belief  that  the  estab- 
lishing of  my  identity  would  weigh  much  against  the 
other  incriminating  details.  It  meant  imprisonment 
and  trial,  probably,  with  all  the  notoriety  and  loss  of 
practice  they  would  entail.  A  man  thinks  quickly  at 
a  time  like  that.  All  the  probable  consequences  of  the 
finding  of  that  pocket-book  flashed  through  my  mind 
as  I  extended  my  hand  to  take  it.  Then  I  drew  my 
arm  back. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  I  said.  "Look  inside.  Maybe 
the  other  man  took  the  mone^  and  left  the  wallet." 
60 


A  FINE  GOLD  CHAIN  61 

The  conductor  opened  it,  and  again  there  was  a 
curious  surging  forward  of  the  crowd.  To  my  in- 
tense disappointment  the  money  was  still  there. 

I  stood  blankly  miserable  while  it  was  counted  out 
— five  one-hundred-dollar  bills,  six  twenties,  and  some 
fives  and  ones  that  brought  the  total  to  six  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars. 

The  little  man  with  the  note-book  insisted  on  taking 
the  numbers  of  the  notes,  to  the  conductor's  annoyance. 
It  was  immaterial  to  me :  small  things  had  lost  their 
power  to  irritate.  I  was  seeing  myself  in  the  prison- 
er's box,  going  through  all  the  nerve-racking  routine 
of  a  trial  for  murder — the  challenging  of  the  jury,  the 
endless  cross-examinations,  the  alternate  hope  and 
fear.  I  believe  I  said  before  that  I  had  no  nerves, 
but  for  a  few  minutes  that  morning  I  was  as  near  as 
a  man  ever  comes  to  hysteria. 

I  folded  my  arms  and  gave  myself  a  mental  shake. 
I  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  a  hundred  eyes,  express- 
ing every  shade  of  doubt  and  distrust,  but  I  tried  not 
to  flinch.  Then  some  one  created  a  diversion. 

The  amateur  detective  was  busy  again  with  the  seal- 
skin bag,  investigating  the  make  of  the  safety  razor 
and  the  manufacturer's  name  on  the  bronze-green  tie. 
Now,  however,  he  paused  and  frowned,  as  though 
some  pet  theory  had  been  upset. 

Then  from  a  corner  of  the  bag  he  drew  out  and 
held  up  for  our  inspection  some  three  inches  of  fine 
gold  chain,  one  end  of  which  was  blackened  and  stained 
with  blood! 


62        THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

The  conductor  held  out  his  hand  for  it,  but  the  little 
man  was  not  ready  to  give  it  up.  He  turned  to  me. 

"You  say  no  watch  was  left  you?  Was  there  a 
piece  of  chain  like  that?" 

"No  chain  at  all,"  I  said  sulkily,  "No  jewelry  of 
any  kind,  except  plain  gold  buttons  in  the  shirt  I  am 
wearing." 

"Where  are  your  glasses?"  he  threw  at  me  sud- 
denly: instinctively  my  hand  went  to  my  eyes.  My 
glasses  had  been  gone  all  morning,  and  I  had  not  even 
noticed  their  absence.  The  little  man  smiled  cynically 
and  held  out  the  chain. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  examine  this,"  he  insisted. 
"Isn't  it  a  part  of  the  fine  gold  chain  you  wear  over 
your  ear?" 

I  didn't  want  to  touch  the  thing:  the  stain  at  the 
end  made  me  shudder.  But  with  a  baker's  dozen  of 
suspicious  eyes — well,  we'll  say  fourteen :  there  were 
no  one-eyed  men — I  took  the  fragment  in  the  tips  of 
my  fingers  and  looked  at  it  helplessly. 

"Very  fine  chains  are  much  alike,"  I  managed  to 
say.  "For  all  I  know,  this  may  be  mine,  but  I  don't 
know  how  it  got  into  that  sealskin  bag.  I  never  saw 
the  bag  until  this  morning  after  daylight." 

"He  admits  that  he  had  the  bag,"  somebody  said 
behind  me.  "How  did  you  guess  that  he  wore  glasses, 
anyhow?"  to  the  amateur  sleuth. 

That  gentleman  cleared  his  throat.  "There  were 
two  reasons,"  he  said,  "for  suspecting  it.  When  you 
see  a  man  with  the  lines  of  his  face  drooping,  a 


A  FINE  GOLD  CHAIN  63 

healthy  individual  with  a  pensive  eye, — suspect  astig- 
matism. Besides,  this  gentleman  has  a  pronounced 
line  across  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and  a  mark  on  his 
ear  from  the  chain." 

After  this  remarkable  exhibition  of  the  theoretical 
as  combined  with  the  practical,  he  sank  into  a  seat 
near-by,  and  still  holding  the  chain,  sat  with  closed 
eyes  and  pursed  lips.  It  was  evident  to  all  the  car 
that  the  solution  of  the  mystery  was  a  question  of 
moments.  Once  he  bent  forward  eagerly  and  putting 
the  chain  on  the  window-sill,  proceeded  to  go  over  it 
with  a  pocket  magnifying  glass,  only  to  shake  his 
head  in  disappointment.  All  the  people  around  shook 
their  heads  too,  although  they  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  what  it  was  about. 

The  pounding  in  my  ears  began  again.  The  group 
around  me  seemed  to  be  suddenly  motionless  in  the 
very  act  of  moving,  as  if  a  hypnotist  had  called 
"Rigid!"  The  girl  in  blue  was  looking  at  me,  and 
above  the  din  I  thought  she  said  she  must  speak  to 
me — something  vital.  The  pounding  grew  louder  and 
merged  into  a  scream.  With  a  grinding  and  splinter- 
ing the  car  rose  under  my  feet.  Then  it  fell  away 
into  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   SECOND  SECTION 

HAVE  you  ever  been  picked  up  out  of  your  three- 
meals-a-day  life,  whirled  around  in  a  tornado 
of  events,  and  landed  in  a  situation  so  grotesque 
and  yet  so  horrible  that  you  laugh  even  while  you 
are  groaning,  and  straining  at  its  hopelessness? 
McKnight  says  that  is  hysteria,  and  that  no  man 
worthy  of  the  name  ever  admits  to  it. 

Also,  as  McKnight  says,  it  sounds  like  a  tank  drama. 
Just  as  the  revolving  saw  is  about  to  cut  the  hero 
into  stove  lengths,  the  second  villain  blows  up  the 
sawmill.  The  hero  goes  up  through  the  roof  and 
alights  on  the  bank  of  a  stream  at  the  feet  of  his  lady 
love,  who  is  making  daisy  chains. 

Nevertheless,  when  I  was  safely  home  again,  with 
Mrs.  Klopton  brewing  strange  drinks  that  came  in 
paper  packets  from  the  pharmacy,  and  that  smelled 
to  heaven,  I  remember  staggering  to  the  door  and 
closing  it,  and  then  going  back  to  bed  and  howling 
out  the  absurdity  and  the  madness  of  the  whole  thing. 
And  while  I  laughed  my  very  soul  was  sick,  for  the 
girl  was  gone  by  that  time,  and  I  knew  by  all  the 
loyalty  that  answers  between  men  for  honor  that  I 
would  have  to  put  her  out  of  my  mind. 

And  yet,  all  the  night  that  followed,  filled  as  it  was 
with  the  shrieking  demons  of  pain,  I  saw  her  as  I  had 
64 


THE  SECOND  SECTION  65 

seen  her  last,  in  the  queer  hat  with  green  ribbons.  I 
told  the  doctor  this,  guardedly,  the  next  morning,  and 
he  said  it  was  the  morphia,  and  that  I  was  lucky  not 
to  have  seen  a  row  of  devils  with  green  tails. 

I  don't  know  anything  about  the  wreck  of  Septem- 
ber ninth  last.  You  who  swallowed  the  details  with 
your  coffee  and  digested  the  horrors  with  your  chop, 
probably  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do.  I  remem- 
ber very  distinctly  that  the  jumping  and  throbbing  in 
my  arm  brought  me  back  to  a  world  that  at  first  was 
nothing  but  sky,  a  heap  of  clouds  that  I  thought  hazily 
were  the  meringue  on  a  blue  charlotte  russe.  As  the 
sense  of  hearing  was  slowly  added  to  vision,  I  heard 
a  woman  near  me  sobbing  that  she  had  lost  her  hat 
pin,  and  she  couldn't  keep  her  hat  on. 

I  think  I  dropped  back  into  unconsciousness  again, 
for  the  next  thing  I  remember  was  of  my  blue  patch 
of  sky  clouded  with  smoke,  of  a  strange  roaring  and 
crackling,  of  a  rain  of  fiery  sparks  on  my  face  and 
of  somebody  beating  at  me  with  feeble  hands.  I 
opened  my  eyes  and  closed  them  again :  the  girl  in  blue 
was  bending  over  me.  With  that  imperviousness  to 
big  things  and  keenness  to  small  that  is  the  first  effect 
of  shock,  I  tried  to  be  facetious,  when  a  spark  stung 
my  cheek. 

"You  will  have  to  rouse  yourself!"  the  girl  was 
repeating  desperately.  "You've  been  on  fire  twice 
already."  A  piece  of  striped  ticking  floated  slowly 
over  my  head.  As  the  wind  caught  it  its  charring 
edges  leaped  into  flame. 


66       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Looks  like  a  kite,  doesn't  it?"  I  remarked  cheer- 
fully. And  then,  as  my  arm  gave  an  excruciating 
throb — "Jove,  how  my  arm  hurts !" 

The  girl  bent  over  and  spoke  slowly,  distinctly,  as 
one  might  speak  to  a  deaf  person  or  a  child. 

"Listen,  Mr.  Blakeley,"  she  said  earnestly.  "You 
must  rouse  yourself.  There  has  been  a  terrible  acci- 
dent. The  second  section  ran  into  us.  The  wreck 
is  burning  now,  and  if  we  don't  move,  we  will  catch 
fire.  Do  you  hear?" 

Her  voice  and  my  arm  were  bringing  me  to  my 
senses.  "I  hear,"  I  said.  "I — I'll  sit  up  in  a  second. 
Are  you  hurt?" 

"No,  only  bruised.    Do  you  think  you  can  walk?" 

I  drew  up  one  foot  after  another,  gingerly. 

"They  seem  to  move  all  right,"  I  remarked  dubi- 
ously. "Would  you  mind  telling  me  where  the  back 
of  my  head  has  gone?  I  can't  help  thinking  it  isn't 
there." 

She  made  a  quick  examination.  "It's  pretty  badly 
bumped,"  she  said.  "You  must  have  fallen  on  it." 

I  had  got  up  on  my  uninjured  elbow  by  that  time, 
but  the  pain  threw  me  back.  "Don't  look  at  the 
wreck,"  I  entreated  her.  "It's  no  sight  for  a  woman. 
If — if  there  is  any  way  to  tie  up  this  arm,  I  might 
be  able  to  do  something.  There  may  be  people  under 
those  cars!" 

"Then  it  is  too  late  to  help,"  she  replied  solemnly. 
A  little  shower  of  feathers,  each  carrying  its  fiery 
lamp,  blew  over  us  from  some  burning  pillow.  A  part 


THE  SECOND  SECTION          67 

of  the  wreck  collapsed  with  a  crash.  In  a  resolute 
endeavor  to  play  a  man's  part  in  the  tragedy  going  on 
all  around,  I  got  to  my  knees.  Then  I  realized  what 
I  had  not  noticed  before:  the  hand  and  wrist  of  the 
broken  left  arm  were  jammed  through  the  handle  of 
the  sealskin  grip.  I  gasped  and  sat  down  suddenly. 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  the  girl  insisted.  I  noticed 
now  that  she  kept  her  back  to  the  wreck,  her  eyes 
averted.  "The  weight  of  the  traveling-bag  must  be 
agony.  Let  me  support  the  valise  until  we  get  back  a 
few  yards.  Then  you  must  lie  down  until  we  can  get 
it  cut  off." 

"Will  it  have  to  be  cut  off?"  I  asked  as  calmly  as 
possible.  There  were  red-hot  stabs  of  agony  clear  to 
my  neck,  but  we  were  moving  slowly  away  from  the 
track. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  dumfounding  coolness. 
"If  I  had  a  knife  I  could  do  it  myself.  You  might 
sit  here  and  lean  against  this  fence." 

By  that  time  my  returning  faculties  had  realized 
that  she  was  going  to  cut  off  the  satchel,  not  the  arm. 
The  dizziness  was  leaving  and  I  was  gradually  becom- 
ing myself. 

"If  you  pull,  it  might  come,"  I  suggested.  "And 
with  that  weight  gone,  I  think  I  will  cease  to  be  five 
feet  eleven  inches  of  baby." 

She  tried  gently  to  loosen  the  handle,  but  it  would 
not  move,  and  at  last,  with  great  drops  of  cold  per- 
spiration over  me,  I  had  to  give  up. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  stand  it,"  I  said.     "But  there's 


68       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

a  knife  somewhere  around  these  clothes,  and  if  I  can 
find  it,  perhaps  you  can  cut  the  leather." 

As  I  gave  her  the  knife  she  turned  it  over,  examin- 
ing it  with  a  peculiar  expression,  bewilderment  rather 
than  surprise.  But  she  said  nothing.  She  set  to 
work  deftly,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  bag  dropped 
free. 

"That's  better,"  I  declared,  sitting  up.  "Now,  if 
you  can  pin  my  sleeve  to  my  coat,  it  will  support  the 
arm  so  we  can  get  away  from  here." 

"The  pin  might  give,"  she  objected,  "and  the  jerk 
would  be  terrible."  She  looked  around,  puzzled ;  then 
she  got  up,  coming  back  in  a  minute  with  a  draggled, 
partly  scorched  sheet.  This  she  tore  into  a  large 
square,  and  after  she  had  folded  it,  she  slipped  it 
under  the  broken  arm  and  tied  it  securely  at  the  back 
of  my  neck. 

The  relief  was  immediate,  and,  picking  up  the  seal- 
skin bag,  I  walked  slowly  beside  her,  away  from  the 
track. 

The  first  act  was  over:  the  curtain  fallen.  The 
scene  was  "struck." 


w 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   HALCYON   BREAKFAST 


E  were  still  dazed,  I  think,  for  we  wandered 
like  two  troubled  children,  our  one  idea  at  first 
to  get  as  far  away  as  we  could  from  the  horror  behind 
us.  We  were  both  bareheaded,  grimy,  pallid  through 
the  grit.  Now  and  then  we  met  little  groups  of  coun- 
try folk  hurrying  to  the  track :  they  stared  at  us  curi- 
ously, and  some  wished  to  question  us.  But  we 
hurried  past  them;  we  had  put  the  wreck  behind  us. 
That  way  lay  madness. 

Only  once  the  girl  turned  and  looked  behind  her. 
The  wreck  was  hidden,  but  the  smoke  cloud  hung 
heavy  and  dense.  For  the  first  time  I  remembered 
that  my  companion  had  not  been  alone  on  the  train. 

"It  is  quiet  here,"  I  suggested.  "If  you  will  sit 
down  on  the  bank  I  will  go  back  and  make  some  in- 
quiries. I've  been  criminally  thoughtless.  Your — 
traveling  companion — " 

She  interrupted  me,  and  something  of  her  splendid 
poise  was  gone.  "Please  don't  go  back,"  she  said. 
"I — am  afraid  it  would  be  of  no  use.  And — I  don't 
want  to  be  left  alone." 

Heaven  knows  I  did  not  want  her  to  be  alone.  I 
was  more  than  content  to  walk  along  beside  her  aim- 
lessly, for  any  length  of  time.  Gradually,  as  she  lost 
69 


70       THE  MAN  IN.  LOWER  TEN 

the  exaltation  of  the  moment,  I  was  gaining  my  normal 
condition  of  mind.  I  was  beginning  to  realize  that 
I  had  lacked  the  morning  grace  of  a  shave,  that  I 
looked  like  some  lost  hope  of  yesterday,  and  that  my 
left  shoe  pinched  outrageously.  A  man  does  not  rise 
triumphant  above  such  handicaps.  The  girl,  for  all 
her  disordered  hair  and  the  crumpled  linen  of  her 
waist,  in  spite  of  her  missing  hat  and  the  small  gold 
bag  that  hung  forlornly  from  a  broken  chain,  looked 
exceedingly  lovely. 

"Then  I  won't  leave  you  alone,"  I  said  manfully, 
and  we  stumbled  on  together.  Thus  far  we  had  seen 
nobody  from  the  wreck,  but  well  up  the  lane  we  came 
across  the  tall  dark  woman  who  had  occupied  lower 
eleven.  She  was  half  crouching  beside  the  road,  her 
black  hair  about  her  shoulders,  and  an  ugly  bruise 
over  her  eye.  She  did  not  seem  to  know  us,  and 
refused  to  accompany  us.  We  left  her  there  at  last, 
babbling  incoherently  and  rolling  in  her  hands  a  dozen 
pebbles  she  had  gathered  in  the  road. 

The  girl  shuddered  as  we  went  on.  Once  she  turned 
and  glanced  at  my  bandage.  "Does  it  hurt  very 
much?"  she  asked. 

"It's  growing  rather  numb.  But  it  might  be 
worse,"  I  answered  mendaciously.  If  anything  in 
this  world  could  be  worse,  I  had  never  experienced  it. 

And  so  we  trudged  on  bareheaded  under  the  sum- 
mer sun,  growing  parched  and  dusty  and  weary,  dog- 
gedly leaving  behind  us  the  pillar  of  smoke.  I 
thought  I  knew  of  a  trolley  line  somewhere  in  the 


THE  HALCYON  BREAKFAST       71 

direction  we  were  going,  or  perhaps  we  could  find 
a  horse  and  trap  to  take  us  into  Baltimore.  The  girl 
smiled  when  I  suggested  it. 

"We  will  create  a  sensation,  won't  we?"  she  asked. 
"Isn't  it  queer — or  perhaps  it's  my  state  of  mind — but 
I  keep  wishing  for  a  pair  of  gloves,  when  I  haven't 
even  a  hat !" 

When  we  reached  the  main  road  we  sat  down  for 
a  moment,  and  her  hair,  which  had  been  coming  loose 
for  some  time,  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  little  waves 
that  were  most  alluring.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  twist  it 
up  again,  but  when  I  suggested  this,  cautiously,  she 
said  it  was  troublesome  and  got  in  her  eyes  when  it 
was  loose.  So  she  gathered  it  up,  while  I  held  a  row 
of  little  shell  combs  and  pins,  and  when  it  was  done  it 
was  vastly  becoming,  too.  Funny  about  hair :  a  man 
never  knows  he  has  it  until  he  begins  to  lose  it,  but  it's 
different  with  a  girl.  Something  of  the  unconven- 
tional situation  began  to  dawn  on  her  as  she  put  in 
the  last  hair-pin  and  patted  some  stray  locks  to  place. 

"I  have  not  told  you  my  name,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"I  forgot  that  because  I  know  who  you  are,  you  know 
nothing  about  me.  I  am  Alison  West,  and  my  home 
is  in  Richmond." 

So  that  was  it !  This  was  the  girl  of  the  photograph 
on  John  Gilmore's  bedside  table.  The  girl  McKnight 
expected  to  see  in  Richmond  the  next  day,  Sunday! 
She  was  on  her  way  back  to  meet  him!  Well,  what 
difference  did  it  make,  anyhow  ?  We  had  been  thrown 
together  by  the  merest  chance.  In  an  hour  or  two  at 


72       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

the  most  we  would  be  back  in  civilization  and  she 
would  recall  me,  if  she  remembered  me  at  all,  as  an 
unshaven  creature  in  a  red  cravat  and  tan  shoes,  with 
a  soiled  Pullman  sheet  tied  around  my  neck.  I  drew 
a  deep  breath. 

"Just  a  twinge,"  I  said,  when  she  glanced  up 
quickly.  "It's  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  know,  Miss 
West.  I  have  been  hearing  delightful  things  about 
you  for  three  months." 

"From  Richey  McKnight?"  She  was  frankly 
curious. 

"Yes.  From  Richey  McKnight,"  I  assented.  Was 
it  any  wonder  McKnight  was  crazy  about  her  ?  I  dug 
my  heels  into  the  dust. 

"I  have  been  visiting  near  Cresson,  in  the  moun- 
tains," Miss  West  was  saying.  "The  person  you  men- 
tioned, Mrs.  Curtis,  was  my  hostess.  We — we  were 
on  our  way  to  Washington  together."  She  spoke 
slowly,  as  if  she  wished  to  give  the  minimum  of  ex- 
planation. Across  her  face  had  come  again  the 
baffling  expression  of  perplexity  and  trouble  I  had 
seen  before. 

"You  were  on  your  way  home,  I  suppose  ?  Richey — 
spoke  about  seeing  you,"  I  floundered,  finding  it  nec- 
essary to  say  something.  She  looked  at  me  with  level, 
direct  eyes. 

"No,"  she  returned  quietly.  "I  did  not  intend  to 
go  home.  I — well,  it  doesn't  matter;  I  am  going 
home  now." 

A  woman  in  a  calico  dress,  with  two  children,  each 


THE  HALCYON  BREAKFAST       73 

an  exact  duplicate  of  the  other,  had  come  quickly  down 
the  road.  She  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and 
was  explosively  hospitable. 

"You  poor  things,"  she  said.  "If  you'll  take  the 
first  road  to  the  left  over  there,  and  turn  in  at  the 
second  pigsty,  you  will  find  breakfast  on  the  table  and 
a  coffee-pot  on  the  stove.  And  there's  plenty  of  soap 
and  water,  too.  Don't  say  one  word.  There  isn't  a 
soul  there  to  see  you." 

We  accepted  the  invitation  and  she  hurried  on 
toward  the  excitement  and  the  railroad.  I  got  up 
carefully  and  helped  Miss  West  to  her  feet. 

"At  the  second  pigsty  to  the  left,"  I  repeated,  "we 
will  find  the  breakfast  I  promised  you  seven  eternities 
ago.  Forward  to  the  pigsty!" 

We  said  very  little  for  the  remainder  of  that  walk. 
I  had  almost  reached  the  limit  of  endurance:  with 
every  step  the  broken  ends  of  the  bone  grated  together. 
We  found  the  farm-house  without  difficulty,  and  I  re- 
member wondering  if  I  could  hold  out  to  the  end  of 
the  old  stone  walk  that  led  between  hedges  to  the  door. 

"Allah  be  praised,"  I  said  with  all  the  voice  I  could 
muster.  "Behold  the  coffee-pot!"  And  then  I  put 
down  the  grip  and  folded  up  like  a  jack-knife  on  the 
porch  floor. 

When  I  came  around  something  hot  was  trickling 
down  my  neck,  and  a  despairing  voice  was  saying, 
"Oh,  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  pour  it  into  your 
mouth.  Please  open  your  eyes." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  in  my  eyes,"  I  replied  dreamily. 


74       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"I  haven't  any  idea  what  came  over  me.  It  was  the 
shoes,  I  think:  the  left  one  is  a  red-hot  torture."  I 
was  sitting  by  that  time  and  looking  across  into  her 
face. 

Never  before  or  since  have  I  fainted,  but  I  would 
do  it  joyfully,  a  dozen  times  a  day,  if  I  could  waken 
again  to  the  blissful  touch  of  soft  fingers  on  my  face, 
the  hot  ecstasy  of  coffee  spilled  by  those  fingers  down 
my  neck.  There  was  a  thrill  in  every  tone  of  her 
voice  that  morning.  Before  long  my  loyalty  to 
McKnight  would  step  between  me  and  the  girl  he 
loved :  life  would  develop  new  complexities.  In  those 
early  hours  after  the  wreck,  full  of  pain  as  they  were, 
there  was  nothing  of  the  suspicion  and  distrust  that 
came  later.  Shorn  of  our  gauds  and  baubles,  we  were 
primitive  man  and  woman,  together:  our  world  for 
the  hour  was  the  deserted  farm-house,  the  slope  of 
wheat-field  that  led  to  the  road,  the  woodland  lot,  the 
pasture. 

We  breakfasted  together  across  the  homely  table. 
Our  cheerfulness,  at  first  sheer  reaction,  became  less 
forced  as  we  ate  great  slices  of  bread  from  the  granny 
oven  back  of  the  house,  and  drank  hot  fluid  that 
smelled  like  coffee  and  tasted  like  nothing  that  I  have 
ever  swallowed.  We  found  cream  in  stone  jars,  sunk 
deep  in  the  chill  water  of  the  spring  house.  And  there 
were  eggs,  great  yellow-brown  ones, — a  basket  of  them. 

So,  like  two  children  awakened  from  a  nightmare, 
we  chattered  over  our  food :  we  hunted  mutual  friends, 
we  laughed  together  at  my  feeble  witticisms,  but  we 
put  the  horror  behind  us  resolutely.  After  all,  it  was 


THE  HALCYON  BREAKFAST       75 

the  hat  with  the  green  ribbons  that  brought  back  the 
strangeness  of  the  situation. 

All  along  I  had  had  the  impression  that  Alison  West 
was  deliberately  putting  out  of  her  mind  something 
that  obtruded  now  and  then.  It  brought  with  it  a 
return  of  the  puzzled  expression  that  I  had  surprised 
early  in  the  day,  before  the  wreck.  I  caught  it  once, 
when,  breakfast  over,  she  was  tightening  the  sling  that 
held  the  broken  arm.  I  had  prolonged  the  morning 
meal  as  much  as  I  could,  but  when  the  wooden  clock 
with  the  pink  roses  on  the  dial  pointed  to  half  after 
ten,  and  the  mother  with  the  duplicate  youngsters  had 
not  come  back,  Miss  West  made  the  move  I  had 
dreaded. 

"If  we  are  to  get  into  Baltimore  at  all  we  must 
start,"  she  said,  rising.  "You  ought  to  see  a  doctor 
as  soon  as  possible." 

"Hush,"  I  said  warningly.  "Don't  mention  the 
arm,  please;  it  is  asleep  now.  You  may  rouse  it." 

"If  I  only  had  a  hat,"  she  reflected.  "It  wouldn't 
need  to  be  much  of  one,  but — "  She  gave  a  little 
cry  and  darted  to  the  corner.  "Look,"  she  said  tri- 
umphantly, "the  very  thing.  With  the  green  streamers 
tied  up  in  a  bow,  like  this — do  you  suppose  the  child 
would  mind?  I  can  put  five  dollars  or  so  here — that 
would  buy  a  dozen  of  them." 

It  was  a  queer  affair  of  straw,  that  hat,  with  a  round 
crown  and  a  rim  that  flopped  dismally.  With  a  single 
movement  she  had  turned  it  up  at  one  side  and  fitted  it 
to  her  head.  Grotesque  by  itself,  when  she  wore  it 
it  was  a  thing  of  joy. 


76       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Evidently  the  lack  of  head  covering  had  troubled 
her,  for  she  was  elated  at  her  find.  She  left  me, 
scrawling  a  note  of  thanks  and  pinning  it  with  a  bill 
to  the  table-cloth,  and  ran  up-stairs  to  the  mirror  and 
the  promised  soap  and  water. 

I  did  not  see  her  when  she  came  down.  I  had  dis- 
covered a  bench  with  a  tin  basin  outside  the  kitchen 
door,  and  was  washing,  in  a  helpless,  one-sided  way. 
I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  she  was  standing  in  the 
door-way,  and  I  made  a  final  plunge  into  the  basin. 

"How  is  it  possible  for  a  man  with  only  a  right 
hand  to  wash  his  left  ear?"  I  asked  from  the  roller 
towel.  I  was  distinctly  uncomfortable :  men  are  more 
rigidly  creatures  of  convention  than  women,  whether 
they  admit  it  or  not.  "There  is  so  much  soap  on  me 
still  that  if  I  laugh  I  will  blow  bubbles.  Washing 
with  rain-water  and  home-made  soap  is  like  motoring 
on  a  slippery  road.  I  only  struck  the  high  places." 

Then,  having  achieved  a  brilliant  polish  with  the 
towel,  I  looked  at  the  girl. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  frame  of  the  door,  her 
face  perfectly  colorless,  her  breath  coming  in  slow, 
difficult  respirations.  The  erratic  hat  was  pinned  to 
place,  but  it  had  slid  rakishly  to  one  side.  When  I 
realized  that  she  was  staring,  not  at  me,  but  past  me 
to  the  road  along  which  we  had  come,  I  turned  and 
followed  her  gaze.  There  was  no  one  in  sight:  the 
lane  stretched  dust  white  in  the  sun, — no  moving  fig- 
ure on  it,  no  sign  of  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

MISS  WEST'S  REQUEST 

surprising  change  in  her  held  me  speechless 
All  the  animation  of  the  breakfast  table  was 
gone:  there  was  no  hint  of  the  response  with  which, 
before,  she  had  met  my  nonsensical  sallies.  She  stood 
there,  white-lipped,  unsmiling,  staring  down  the  dusty 
road.  One  hand  was  clenched  tight  over  some  small 
object.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  it  from  the  distant  road, 
and  then  closed,  with  a  quick,  indrawn  breath. 

Her  color  came  back  slowly.  Whatever  had  caused 
the  change,  she  said  nothing.  She  was  anxious  to 
leave  at  once,  almost  impatient  over  my  deliberate 
masculine  way  of  getting  my  things  together.  After- 
ward I  recalled  that  I  had  wanted  to  explore  the  barn 
for  a  horse  and  some  sort  of  a  vehicle  to  take  us  to 
the  trolley,  and  that  she  had  refused  to  allow  me  to 
look.  I  remembered  many  things  later  that  might 
have  helped  me,  and  did  not.  At  the  time,  I  was  only 
completely  bewildered.  Save  the  wreck,  the  responsi- 
bility for  which  lay  between  Providence  and  the  en- 
gineer of  the  second  section,  all  the  events  of  that 
strange  morning  were  logically  connected;  they  came 
from  one  cause,  and  tended  unerringly  to  one  end. 
But  the  cause  was  buried,  the  end  not  yet  in  view. 

Not  until  we  had  left  the  house  well  behind  did  the 
77 


78       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

girl's  face  relax  its  tense  lines.  I  was  watching  her 
more  closely  than  I  had  realized,  for  when  we  had 
gone  a  little  way  along  the  road  she  turned  to  me 
almost  petulantly.  "Please  don't  stare  so  at  me,"  she 
said,  to  my  sudden  confusion.  "I  know  the  hat  is 
dreadful.  Green  always  makes  me  look  ghastly." 

"Perhaps  it  was  the  green."  I  was  unaccountably 
relieved.  "Do  you  know,  a  few  minutes  ago,  you 
looked  almost  pallid  to  me!" 

She  glanced  at  me  quickly,  but  I  was  gazing  ahead. 
We  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  now,  and  with 
every  step  away  from  it  the  girl  was  obviously  relieved. 
Whatever  she  held  in  her  hand,  she  never  glanced  at 
it.  But  she  was  conscious  of  it  every  second.  She 
seemed  to  come  to  a  decision  about  it  while  we  were 
still  in  sight  of  the  gate,  for  she  murmured  something 
and  turned  back  alone,  going  swiftly,  her  feet  stirring 
up  small  puffs  of  dust  at  every  step.  She  fastened 
something  to  the  gate-post, — I  could  see  the  nervous 
haste  with  which  she  worked.  When  she  joined  me 
again  it  was  without  explanation.  But  the  clenched 
fingers  were  free  now,  and  while  she  looked  tired  and 
worn,  the  strain  had  visibly  relaxed. 

We  walked  along  slowly  in  the  general  direction 
of  the  suburban  trolley  line.  Once  a  man  with  an 
empty  wagon  offered  us  a  lift,  but  after  a  glance  at 
the  springless  vehicle  I  declined. 

"The  ends  of  the  bone  think  they  are  castanets  as 
it  is,"  I  explained.  "But  the  lady — " 

The  young  lady,  however,  declined  and  we  went  on 


MISS  WEST'S  REQUEST  79 

together.  Once,  when  the  trolley  line  was  in  sight, 
she  got  a  pebble  in  her  low  shoe,  and  we  sat  down 
under  a  tree  until  she  found  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you,"  I  blundered.  "Moral  support  and — and  all 
that.  Do  you  know,  my  first  conscious  thought  after 
the  wreck  was  of  relief  that  you  had  not  been  hurt?" 

She  was  sitting  beside  me,  where  a  big  chestnut  tree 
shaded  the  road,  and  I  surprised  a  look  of  misery  on 
her  face  that  certainly  my  words  had  not  been  meant 
to  produce. 

"And  my  first  thought,"  she  said  slowly,  "was  re- 
gret that  I — that  I  hadn't  been  obliterated,  blown  out 
like  a  candle.  Please  don't  look  like  that!  I  am — 
only  talking." 

But  her  lips  were  trembling,  and  because  the  little 
shams  of  society  are  forgotten  at  times  like  this,  I 
leaned  over  and  patted  her  hand  lightly,  where  it  rested 
on  the  grass  beside  me. 

"You  must  not  say  those  things,"  I  expostulated. 
"Perhaps,  after  all,  your  friends — " 

"I  had  no  friends  on  the  train."  Her  voice  was 
hard  again,  her  tone  final.  She  drew  her  hand  from 
under  mine,  not  quickly,  but  decisively.  A  car  was 
in  sight,  coming  toward  us.  The  steel  finger  of  civi- 
lization, of  propriety,  of  visiting  cards  and  formal  in- 
troductions was  beckoning  us  in.  Miss  West  put  on 
her  shoe. 

We  said  little  on  the  car.  The  few  passengers  stared 
at  us  frankly,  and  discussed  the  wreck,  emphasizing 


80       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

its  horrors.  The  girl  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Once  she 
turned  to  me  with  the  quick,  unexpected  movement 
that  was  one  of  her  charms. 

"I  do  not  wish  my  mother  to  know  I  was  in  the 
accident,"  she  said.  "Will  you  please  not  tell  Richey 
about  having  met  me?" 

I  gave  my  promise,  of  course.  Again,  when  we 
were  almost  into  Baltimore,  she  asked  to  examine  the 
gun-metal  cigarette  case,  and  sat  silent  with  it  in  her 
hands,  while  I  told  of  the  early  morning's  events  on 
the  Ontario. 

"So  you  see,"  I  finished,  "this  grip,  everything  I 
have  on,  belongs  to  a  fellow  named  Sullivan.  He 
probably  left  the  train  before  the  wreck, — perhaps  just 
after  the  murder." 

"And  so — you  think  he  committed  the — the  crime?" 
Her  eyes  were  on  the  cigarette  case. 

"Naturally,"  I  said.  "A  man  doesn't  jump  off  a 
Pullman  car  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in  another 
man's  clothes,  unless  he  is  trying  to  get  away  from 
something.  Besides  the  dirk,  there  were  the  stains 
that  you  saw.  Why,  I  have  the  murdered  man's 
pocket-book  in  this  valise  at  my  feet.  What  does  that 
look  like?" 

I  colored  when  I  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile  hovering 
around  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "That  is,"  I  fin- 
ished, "if  you  care  to  believe  that  I  am  innocent." 

The  sustaining  chain  of  her  small  gold  bag  gave 
way  just  then.  She  did  not  notice  it.  I  picked  it  up 
and  slid  the  trinket  into  my  pocket  for  safekeeping, 


MISS  WEST'S  REQUEST  81 

where  I  promptly  forgot  it.  Afterwards  I  wished  I 
had  let  it  lie  unnoticed  on  the  floor  of  that  dirty  little 
suburban  car,  and  even  now,  when  I  see  a  woman 
carelessly  dangling  a  similar  feminine  trinket,  I  shud- 
der involuntarily :  there  comes  back  to  me  the  memory 
of  a  girl's  puzzled  eyes  under  the  brim  of  a  flopping 
hat,  the  haunting  suspicion  of  the  sleepless  nights  that 
followed. 

Just  then  I  was  determined  that  my  companion 
should  not  stray  back  to  the  wreck,  and  to  that  end  I 
was  determinedly  facetious. 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  Sunday?"  she  asked  sud- 
denly, "and  that  we  are  actually  ragged?" 

"Never  mind  that,"  I  retorted.  "All  Baltimore  is 
divided  on  Sunday  into  three  parts,  those  who  rise 
up  and  go  to  church,  those  who  rise  up  and  read  the 
newspapers,  and  those  who  don't  rise  up.  The  first 
are  somewhere  between  the  creed  and  the  sermon,  and 
we  need  not  worry  about  the  others." 

"You  treat  me  like  a  child,"  she  said  almost  pet- 
tishly. "Don't  try  so  hard  to  be  cheerful.  It — it  is 
almost  ghastly." 

After  that  I  subsided  like  a  pricked  balloon,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  ride  was  made  in  silence.  The 
information  that  she  would  go  to  friends  in  the  city 
was  a  shock :  it  meant  an  earlier  separation  than  I  had 
planned  for.  But  my  arm  was  beginning  again.  In 
putting  her  into  a  cab  I  struck  it  and  gritted  my  teeth 
with  the  pain.  It  was  probably  for  that  reason  that 
I  forgot  the  gold  bag. 


82       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

She  leaned  forward  and  held  out  her  hand.  "I  may 
not  have  another  chance  to  thank  you,"  she  said,  "and 
I  think  I  would  better  not  try,  anyhow.  I  can  not  tell 
you  how  grateful  I  am."  I  muttered  something  about 
the  gratitude  being  mine:  owing  to  the  knock  I  was 
seeing  two  cabs,  and  two  girls  were  holding  out  two 
hands. 

"Remember,"  they  were  both  saying,  "you  have 
never  met  me,  Mr.  Blakeley.  And — if  you  ever  hear 
anything  about  me — that  is  not — pleasant,  I  want  you 
to  think  the  best  you  can  of  me.  Will  you?" 

The  two  girls  were  one  now,  with  little  flashes  of 
white  light  playing  all  around.  "I — I'm  afraid  that 
I  shall  think  too  well  for  my  own  good,"  I  said  un- 
steadily. And  the  cab  drove  on. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN 

I  HAD  my  arm  done  up  temporarily  in  Baltimore 
and  took  the  next  train  home.  I  was  pretty  far 
gone  when  I  stumbled  out  of  a  cab  almost  into  the 
scandalized  arms  of  Mrs.  Klopton.  In  fifteen  minutes 
I  was  in  bed,  with  that  good  woman  piling  on  blankets 
and  blistering  me  in  unprotected  places  with  hot-water 
bottles.  And  in  an  hour  I  had  had  a  whiff  of  chloro- 
form and  Doctor  Williams  had  set  the  broken  bone. 

I  dropped  asleep  then,  waking  in  the  late  twilight  to 
a  realization  that  I  was  at  home  again,  without  the 
papers  that  meant  conviction  for  Andy  Bronson,  with 
a  charge  of  murder  hanging  over  my  head,  and  with 
something  more  than  an  impression  of  the  girl  my 
best  friend  was  in  love  with,  a  girl  moreover  who  was 
almost  as  great  an  enigma  as  the  crime  itself. 

"And  I'm  no  hand  at  guessing  riddles,"  I  groaned 
half  aloud.  Mrs.  Klopton  came  over  promptly  and 
put  a  cold  cloth  on  my  forehead. 

"Euphemia,"  she  said  to  some  one  outside  the  door, 
"telephone  the  doctor  that  he  is  still  rambling,  but  that 
he  has  switched  from  green  ribbons  to  riddles," 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  Mrs.  Klop- 
ton," I  rebelled.  "I  was  only  thinking  out  loud.  Con- 
found that  cloth:  it's  trickling  all  over  me!"  I  gave 
83 


84       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

it  a  fling,  and  heard  it  land  with  a  soggy  thud  on  the 
floor. 

"Thinking  out  loud  is  delirium,"  Mrs.  Klopton  said 
imperturbably.  "A  fresh  cloth,  Euphemia." 

This  time  she  held  it  on  with  a  firm  pressure  that 
I  was  too  weak  to  resist.  I  expostulated  feebly  that 
I  was  drowning,  which  she  also  laid  to  my  mental 
exaltation,  and  then  I  finally  dropped  into  a  damp 
sleep.  It  was  probably  midnight  when  I  roused  again. 
I  had  been  dreaming  of  the  wreck,  and  it  was  inex- 
pressibly comforting  to  feel  the  stability  of  my  bed, 
and  to  realize  the  equal  stability  of  Mrs.  Klopton,  who 
sat,  fully  attired,  by  the  night  light,  reading  Science 
and  Health. 

"Does  that  book  say  anything  about  opening  the 
windows  on  a  hot  night?"  I  suggested,  when  I  had 
got  my  bearings. 

She  put  it  down  immediately  and  came  over  to  me. 
If  there  is  one  time  when  Mrs.  Klopton  is  chastened — 
and  it  is  the  only  time — it  is  when  she  reads  Science 
and  Health.  "I  don't  like  to  open  the  shutters,  Mr. 
Lawrence,"  she  explained.  "Not  since  the  night  you 
went  away." 

But,  pressed  further,  she  refused  to  explain.  "The 
doctor  said  you  were  not  to  be  excited,"  she  persisted. 
"Here's  your  beef  tea." 

"Not  a  drop  until  you  tell  me,"  I  said  firmly.  "Be>- 
sides,  you  know  very  well  there's  nothing  the  matter 
with  me.  This  arm  of  mine  is  only  a  false  belief." 


THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN       85 

I  sat  up  gingerly.  "Now — why  don't  you  open  that 
window  ?" 

Mrs.  Klopton  succumbed.  "Because  there  are  queer 
goings-on  in  that  house  next  door,"  she  said.  "If  you 
will  take  the  beef  tea,  Mr.  Lawrence,  I  will  tell  you." 

The  queer  goings-on,  however,  proved  to  be  slightly 
disappointing.  It  seemed  that  after  I  left  on  Friday 
night,  a  light  was  seen  flitting  fitfully  through  the 
empty  house  next  door.  Euphemia  had  seen  it  first 
and  called  Mrs.  Klopton.  Together  they  had  watched 
it  breathlessly  until  it  disappeared  on  the  lower  floor. 

"You  should  have  been  a  writer  of  ghost  stories," 
I  said,  giving  my  pillows  a  thump.  "And  so  it  was 
fitting  flitfully!" 

"That's  what  it  was  doing,"  she  reiterated.  "Fit- 
ting flitfully — I  mean  flitting  fitfully — how  you  do 
throw  me  out,  Mr.  Lawrence!  And  what's  more,  it 
came  again !" 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Klopton,"  I  objected,  "ghosts 
are  like  lightning;  they  never  strike  twice  in  the  same 
night.  That  is  only  worth  half  a  cup  of  beef  tea." 

"You  may  ask  Euphemia,"  she  retorted  with  dig- 
nity. "Not  more  than  an  hour  after,  there  was  a  light 
there  again.  We  saw  it  through  the  chinks  of  the 
shutters.  Only — this  time  it  begem  at  the  lower  floor 
and  climbed!" 

"You  oughtn't  to  tell  ghost  stories  at  night,"  came 
McKnight's  voice  from  the  doorway.  "Really,  Mrs. 
Klopton,  I'm  amazed  at  you.  You  old  duffer!  I've 
got  you  to  thank  for  the  worst  day  of  my  life." 


86       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Mrs.  Klopton  gulped.  Then  realizing  that  the  "old 
duffer"  was  meant  for  me,  she  took  her  empty  cup 
and  went  out  muttering. 

"The  Pirate's  crazy  about  me,  isn't  she?"  McKnight 
said  to  the  closing  door.  Then  he  swung  around  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said,  "I've  been  laying  you  out  all 
day,  lilies  on  the  door-bell,  black  gloves,  everything. 
If  you  hatf  had  the  sense  of  a  mosquito  in  a  snow- 
storm, you  would  have  telephoned  me." 

"I  never  even  thought  of  it."  I  was  filled  with  re- 
morse. "Upon  my  word,  Rich,  I  hadn't  an  idea  be- 
yond getting  away  from  that  place.  If  you  had  seen 
what  I  saw — " 

McKnight  stopped  me.  "Seen  it!  Why,  you  lun- 
atic, I've  been  digging  for  you  all  day  in  the  ruins ! 
I've  lunched  and  dined  on  horrors.  Give  me  some- 
thing to  rinse  them  down,  Lollie." 

He  had  fished  the  key  of  the  cellarette  from  its  hid- 
ing-place in  my  shoe  bag  and  was  mixing  himself  what 
he  called  a  Bernard  Shaw — a  foundation  of  brandy 
and  soda,  with  a  little  of  everything  else  in  sight  to 
give  it  snap.  Now  that  I  saw  him  clearly,  he  looked 
weary  and  grimy.  I  hated  to  tell  him  what  I  knew 
he  was  waiting  to  hear,  but  there  was  no  use  wading 
in  by  inches.  I  ducked  and  got  it  over. 

"The  notes  are  gone,  Rich,"  I  said,  as  quietly  as  I 
could.  In  spite  of  himself  his  face  fell. 

"I — of  course  I  expected  it,"  he  said.  "But — Mrs. 
Klopton  said  over  the  telephone  that  you  had  brought 


THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN       87 

home  a  grip  and  I  hoped — well,  Lord  knows  we  ought 
not  to  complain.  You're  here,  damaged,  but  here." 
He  lifted  his  glass.  "Happy  days,  old  man!" 

"If  you  will  give  me  that  black  bottle  and  a  teaspoon, 
Pll  drink  that  in  arnica,  or  whatever  the  stuff  is;  Rich, 
— the  notes  were  gone  before  the  wreck!" 

He  wheeled  and  stared  at  me,  the  bottle  in  his  hand. 
"Lost,  strayed  or  stolen?"  he  queried  with  forced  light- 
ness. 

"Stolen,  although  I  believe  the  theft  was  incidental 
to  something  else." 

Mrs.  Klopton  came  in  at  that  moment,  with  an  egg- 
nog  in  her  hand.  She  glanced  at  the  clock,  and,  with- 
out addressing  any  one  in  particular,  she  intimated  that 
it  was  time  for  self-respecting  folks  to  be  at  home  in 
bed.  McKnight,  who  could  never  resist  a  fling  at  her 
back,  spoke  to  me  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Is  she  talking  still?  or  again?"  he  asked,  just  before 
the  door  closed.  There  was  a  second's  indecision  with 
the  knob,  then,  judging  discretion  the  better  part,  Mrs. 
Klopton  went  away. 

"Now,  then,"  McKnight  said,  settling  himself  in  a 
chair  beside  the  bed,  "spit  it  out.  Not  the  wreck — 
I  know  all  I  want  about  that.  But  the  theft.  I  can 
tell  you  beforehand  that  it  was  a  woman." 

I  had  crawled  painfully  out  of  bed,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  pouring  the  egg-nog  down  the  pipe  of  the  wash- 
stand.  I  paused,  with  the  glass  in  the  air. 

"A  woman!"  I  repeated,  startled.  "What  makes 
you  think  that?" 


88       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"You  don't  know  the  first  principles  of  a  good  de- 
tective yarn,"  he  said  scornfully.  "Of  course,  it  was 
the  woman  in  the  empty  house  next  door.  You  said 
it  was  brass  pipes,  you  will  remember.  Well — on  with 
the  dance :  let  joy  be  unconfined." 

So — I  told  the  story;  I  had  told  it  so  many  times 
that  day  that  I  did  it  automatically.  And  I  told  about 
the  girl  with  the  bronze  hair,  and  my  suspicions.  But 
I  did  not  mention  Alison  West.  McKnight  listened 
to  the  end  without  interruption.  When  I  had  finished 
he  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "That's  something  of  a  mess, 
isn't  it?  If  you  can  only  prove  your  mild  and  child- 
like disposition,  they  couldn't  hold  you  for  the  murder 
— which  is  a  regular  ten-twent-thirt  crime,  anyhow. 
But  the  notes — that's  different.  They  are  not  burned, 
anyhow.  Your  man  wasn't  on  the  train — therefore, 
he  wasn't  in  the  wreck.  If  he  didn't  know  what  he 
was  taking,  as  you  seem  to  think,  he  probably  reads 
the  papers,  and  unless  he  is  a  fathead,  he's  awake  by 
this  time  to  what  he's  got.  He'll  try  to  sell  them  to 
Bronson,  probably." 

"Or  to  us,"  I  put  in. 

We  said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes.  McKnight 
smoked  a  cigarette  and  stared  at  a  photograph  of  Can- 
dida over  the  mantel.  Candida  is  the  best  pony  for 
a  heavy  mount  in  seven  states. 

"I  didn't  go  to  Richmond,"  he  observed  finally.  The 
remark  followed  my  own  thoughts  so  closely  that  I 


THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN       89 

started.  "Miss  West  is  not  home  yet  from  Seal  Har- 
bor." 

Receiving  no  response,  he  lapsed  again  into  thought- 
ful silence.  Mrs.  Klopton  came  in  just  as  the  clock 
struck  one,  and  made  preparation  for  the  night  by 
putting  a  large  gaudy  comfortable  into  an  arm-chair 
in  the  dressing-room,  with  a  smaller,  stiff-backed  chair 
for  her  feet.  She  was  wonderfully  attired  in  a  dress- 
ing-gown that  was  reminiscent,  in  parts,  of  all  the 
ones  she  had  given  me  for  a  half  dozen  Christmases, 
and  she  had  a  purple  veil  wrapped  around  her  head, 
to  hide  Heaven  knows  what  deficiency.  She  examined 
the  empty  egg-nog  glass,  inquired  what  the  evening 
paper  had  said  about  the  weather,  and  then  stalked 
into  the  dressing-room,  and  prepared,  with  much  os- 
tentatious creaking,  to  sit  up  all  night. 

We  fell  silent  again,  while  McKnight  traced  a  rough 
outline  of  the  berths  on  the  -white  table-cover,  and  puz- 
zled it  out  slowly.  It  was  something  like  this : 


12  10* 


AISLE 


11 


"You  thinki  he  changed  the  tags  on  seven  and 
nine,  so  that  when  you  went  back  to  bed  you  thought 
you  were  crawling  into  nine,  when  it  was  really  seven, 
eh?" 


90       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Probably— yes." 

"Then  toward  morning,  when  everybody  was  asleep, 
your  theory  is  that  he  changed  the  numbers  again  and 
left  the  train." 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  else,"  I  replied  wearily. 

"Jove,  what  a  game  of  bridge  that  fellow  would 
play!  It  was  like  finessing  an  eight-spot  and  winning 
out.  They  would  scarcely  have  doubted  your  story 
had  the  tags  been  reversed  in  the  morning.  He  cer- 
tainly left  you  in  a  bad  way.  Not  a  jury  in  the  coun- 
try would  stand  out  against  the  stains,  the  stiletto,  and 
the  murdered  man's  pocket-book  in  your  possession." 

"Then  you  think  Sullivan  did  it?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course,"  said  McKnight  confidently.  "Unless 
you  did  it  in  your  sleep.  Look  at  the  stains  on  his. 
pillow,  and  the  dirk  stuck  into  it.  And  didn't  he  have 
the  man  Harrington's  pocket-book?" 

"But  why  did  he  go  off  without  the  money?"  I  per- 
sisted. "And  where  does  the  bronze-haired  girl  come 
in?" 

"Search  me,"  McKnight  retorted  flippantly.  "In- 
flammation of  the  imagination  on  your  part." 

"Then  there  is  the  piece  of  telegram.  It  said  lower 
ten,  car  seven.  It's  extremely  likely  that  she  had  it. 
That  telegram  was  about  me,  Richey." 

"I'm  getting  a  headache,"  he  said,  putting  out  his 
cigarette  against  the  sole  of  his  shoe.  "All  I'm  certain 
of  just  now  is  that  if  there  hadn't  been  a  wreck,  by  this 
time  you'd  be  sitting  in  an  eight  by  ten  cell,  and  feeling 
like  the  rhyme  for  it." 


THE  NAME  WAS  SULLIVAN      91 

"But  listen  to  this,"  I  contended,  as  he  picked  up  his 
hat,  "this  fellow  Sullivan  is  a  fugitive,  and  he's  a  lot 
more  likely  to  make  advances  to  Bronson  than  to  us. 
We  could  have  the  case  continued,  release  Bronson 
on  bail  and  set  a  watch  on  him." 

"Not  my  watch,"  McKnight  protested.  "It's  a  fam- 
ily heirloom." 

"You'd  better  go  home,"  I  said  firmly.  "Go  home 
and  go  to  bed.  You're  sleepy.  You  can  have  Sulli- 
van's red  necktie  to  dream  over  if  you  think  it  will 
help  any." 

Mrs.  Klopton's  voice  came  drowsily  from  the  next 
room,  punctuated  by  a  yawn.  "Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell 
you,"  she  called,  with  the  suspicious  lisp  which  char- 
acterizes her  at  night,  "somebody  called  up  about  noon, 
Mr.  Lawrence.  It  was  long  distance,  and  he  said 
he  would  call  again.  The  name  was" — she  yawned — 
"Sullivan." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GOLD  BAG 

I  HAVE  always  smiled  at  those  cases  of  spontaneous 
combustion  which,  like  fusing  the  component  parts 
of  a  seidlitz  powder,  unite  two  people  in  a  bubbling 
and  ephemeral  ecstasy.  But  surely  there  is  possible, 
with  but  a  single  meeting,  an  attraction  so  great,  a 
community  of  mind  and  interest  so  strong,  that  be- 
tween that  first  meeting  and  the  next  the  bond  may 
grow  into  something  stronger.  This  is  especially  true, 
I  fancy,  of  people  with  temperament,  the  modern  sub- 
stitute for  imagination.  It  is  a  nice  question  whether 
lovers  begin  to  love  when  they  are  together,  or  when 
they  are  apart. 

Not  that  I  followed  any  such  line  of  reasoning  at 
the  time.  I  would  not  even  admit  my  folly  to  myself. 
But  during  the  restless  hours  of  that  first  night  after 
the  accident,  when  my  back  ached  with  lying  on  it, 
and  any  other  position  was  torture,  I  found  my 
thoughts  constantly  going  back  to  Alison  West.  I 
dropped  into  a  doze,  to  dream  of  touching  her  fingers 
again  to  comfort  her,  and  awoke  to  find  I  had  patted 
a  teaspoon ful  of  medicine  out  of  Mrs.  Klopton's  in- 
dignant hand.  What  was  it  McKnight  had  said  about 
making  an  egregious  ass  of  myself? 

And  that  brought  me  back  to  Richey,  and  I  fancy  I 
92 


THE  GOLD  BAG 93 

groaned.  There  is  no  use  expatiating  on  the  friend- 
ship between  two  men  who  have  gone  together  through 
college,  have  quarreled  and  made  it  up,  fussed  together 
over  politics  and  debated  creeds  for  years:  men  don't 
need  to  be  told,  and  women  can  not  understand. 
Nevertheless,  I  groaned.  If  it  had  been  any  one  but 
Rich! 

Some  things  were  mine,  however,  and  I  would  hold 
them :  the  halcyon  breakfast,  the  queer  hat,  the  pebble 
in  her  small  shoe,  the  gold  bag  with  the  broken  chain — 
the  bag!  Why,  it  was  in  my  pocket  at  that  moment. 

I  got  up  painfully  and  found  my  coat.  Yes,  there 
was  the  purse,  bulging  with  an  opulent  suggestion  of 
wealth  inside.  I  went  back  to  bed  again,  somewhat 
dizzy,  between  effort  and  the  touch  of  the  trinket,  so 
lately  hers.  I  held  it  up  by  its  broken  chain  and  gloated 
over  it.  By  careful  attention  to  orders,  I  ought  to  be 
out  in  a  day  or  so.  Then — I  could  return  it  to  her. 
I  really  ought  to  do  that:  it  was  valuable,  and  I 
wouldn't  care  to  trust  it  to  the  mail.  I  could  run  down 
to  Richmond,  and  see  her  once — there  was  no  disloyalty 
to  Rich  in  that. 

I  had  no  intention  of  opening  the  little  bag.  I  put 
it  under  my  pillow — which  was  my  reason  for  refus- 
ing to  have  the  linen  slips  changed,  to  Mrs.  Klopton's 
dismay.  And  sometimes  during  the  morning,  while  I 
lay  under  a  virgin  field  of  white,  ornamented  with 
strange  flowers,  my  cigarettes  hidden  beyond  discov- 
ery, and  Science  and  Health  on  a  table  by  my  elbow, 


94       THE  MAN  IN1  LOWER  TEN 

as  if  by  the  merest  accident,  I  slid  my  hand  under  my 
pillow  and  touched  it  reverently. 

McKnight  came  in  about  eleven.  I  heard  his  car 
at  the  curb,  followed  almost  immediately  by  his  slam 
at  the  front  door,  and  his  usual  clamor  on  the  stairs. 
He  had  a  bottle  under  his  arm,  rightly  surmising  that 
I  had  been  forbidden  stimulant,  and  a  large  box  of 
cigarettes  in  his  pocket,  suspecting  my  deprivation. 

"Well,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "How  did  you  sleep 
after  keeping  me  up  half  the  night?" 

I  slid  my  hand  around :  the  purse  was  well  covered. 

"Have  it  now,  or  wait  till  I  get  the  cork  out?"  he 
rattled  on. 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  I  protested.  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't  be  so  darned  cheerful,  Richey."  He  stopped 
whistling  to  stare  at  me. 

"  'I  am  saddest  when  I  sing !'  "  he  quoted  unc- 
tuously. "It's  pure  reaction,  Lollie.  Yesterday  the 
sky  was  low :  I  was  digging  for  my  best  friend.  To- 
day— he  lies  before  me,  his  peevish  self.  Yesterday  I 
thought  the  notes  were  burned:  to-day — I  look  for- 
ward to  a  good  cross-country  chase,  and  with  luck  we 
will  draw."  His  voice  changed  suddenly.  "Yester- 
day— she  was  in  Seal  Harbor.  To-day — she  is  here." 

"Here  in  Washington?"  I  asked,  as  naturally  as  I 
could. 

"Yes.    Going  to  stay  a  week  or  two." 

"Oh,  I  had  a  little  hen  and  she  had  a  wooden  leg 
And  nearly  every  morning  she  used  to  lay  an  egg — " 


THE  GOLD  BAG 95 

"Will  you  stop  that  racket,  Rich !  It's  the  real  thing 
this  time,  I  suppose?" 

"She's  the  best  little  chicken  that  we  have  on  the  farm 
And  another  little  drink  won't  do  us  any  harm — " 

he  finished,  twisting  out  the  corkscrew.  Then  he  came 
over  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "since  you  drag  it  from 
me,  I  think  perhaps  it  is.  You — you're  such  a  con- 
firmed woman-hater  that  I  hardly  knew  how  you 
would  take  it." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  denied  testily.  "Because 
a  man  reaches  the  age  of  thirty  without  making  maud- 
lin love  to  every — " 

"I've  taken  to  long  country  rides,"  he  went  on  re- 
flectively, without  listening  to  me,  "and  yesterday  I 
ran  over  a  sheep;  nearly  went  into  the  ditch.  But 
there's  a  Providence  that  watches  over  fools  and  lov- 
ers, and  just  now  I  know  darned  well  that  I'm  one, 
and  I  have  a  sneaking  idea  I'm  both." 

"You  are  both,"  I  said  with  disgust.  "If  you  can 
be  rational  for  one  moment,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
why  that  man  Sullivan  called  me  over  the  telephone 
yesterday  morning." 

"Probably  hadn't  yet  discovered  the  Bronson  notes 
— providing  you  hold  to  your  theory  that  the  theft 
was  incidental  to  the  murder.  May  have  wanted  his 
own  clothes  again,  or  to  thank  you  for  yours.  Search 


96       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

me :  I  can't  think  of  anything  else."  The  doctor  came 
in  just  then. 

As  I  said  before,  I  think  a  lot  of  my  doctor — when 
I  am  ill.  He  is  a  young  man,  with  an  air  of  breezy 
self-confidence  and  good  humor.  He  looked  directly 
past  the  bottle,  which  is  a  very  valuable  accomplish- 
ment, and  shook  hands  with  McKnight  until  I  could 
put  the  cigarettes  under  the  bedclothes.  He  had  inter- 
dicted tobacco.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  the  bed  and 
felt  around  the  bandages  with  hands  as  gentle  as  a 
baby's. 

"Pretty  good  shape,"  he  said.  "How  did  you 
sleep?" 

"Oh,  occasionally,"  I  replied.  "I  would  like  to  sit 
up,  doctor." 

"Nonsense.  Take  a  rest  while  you  have  an  excuse 
for  it.  I  wish  to  thunder  I  could  stay  in  bed  for  a 
day  or  so.  I  was  up  all  night." 

"Have  a  drink,"  McKnight  said,  pushing  over  the 
bottle. 

"Twins !"    The  doctor  grinned. 

"Have  two  drinks." 

But  the  medical  man  refused. 

"I  wouldn't  even  wear  a  champagne-colored  necktie 
during  business  hours,"  he  explained.  "By  the  way, 
I  had  another  case  from  your  accident,  Mr.  Blakeley, 
late  yesterday  afternoon.  Under  the  tongue,  please." 
He  stuck  a  thermometer  in  my  mouth. 

I  had  a  sudden  terrible  vision  of  the  amateur  detec- 
tive coming  to  light,  note-book,  cheerful  impertinence 


THE  GOLD  BAG 97 

and  incriminating  data.  "A  small  man  ?"  I  demanded, 
"gray  hair — " 

"Keep  your  mouth  closed,"  the  doctor  said  peremp- 
torily. "No.  A  woman,  with  a  fractured  skull. 
Beautiful  case.  Van  Kirk  was  up  to  his  eyes  and  sent 
for  me.  Hemorrhage,  right-sided  paralysis,  irregular 
pupils — all  the  trimmings.  Worked  for  two  hours." 

"Did  she  recover?"  McKnight  put  in.  He  was  ex- 
amining the  doctor  with  a  new  awe. 

"She  lifted  her  right  arm  before  I  left,"  the  doctor 
finished  cheerily,  "so  the  operation  was  a  success,  even 
if  she  should  die." 

"Good  Heavens,"  McKnight  broke  in,  "and  I 
thought  you  were  just  an  ordinary  mortal,  like  the  rest 
of  us!  Let  me  touch  you  for  luck.  Was  she  pretty?" 

"Yes,  and  young.  Had  a  wealth  of  bronze-colored 
hair.  Upon  my  soul,  I  hated  to  cut  it." 

McKnight  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

"Do  you  know  her  name,  doctor?"  I  asked. 

"No.  The  nurses  said  her  clothes  came  from  a 
Pittsburg  tailor." 

"She  is  not  conscious,  I  suppose?" 

"No ;  she  may  be,  to-morrow — or  in  a  week." 

He  looked  at  the  thermometer,  murmured  some- 
thing about  liquid  diet,  avoiding  my  eye — Mrs.  Klop- 
ton  was  broiling  a  chop  at  the  time — and  took  his 
departure,  humming  cheerfully  as  he  went  down-stairs. 
McKnight  looked  after  him  wistfully. 

"Jove,  I  wish  I  had  his  constitution,"  he  exclaimed. 


98       THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Neither  nerves  nor  heart!  What  a  chauffeur  he 
would  make!" 

But  I  was  serious. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  I  said  grimly,  "that  this  small 
matter  of  the  murder  is  going  to  come  up  again,  and 
that  your  uncle  will  be  in  the  deuce  of  a  fix  if  it  does. 
If  that  woman  is  going  to  die,  somebody  ought  to  be 
around  to  take  her  deposition.  She  knows  a  lot,  if  she 
didn't  do  it  herself.  I  wish  you  would  go  down  to 
the  telephone  and  get  the  hospital.  Find  out  her  name, 
and  if  she  is  conscious." 

McKnight  went  under  protest.  "I  haven't  much 
time,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch.  "I'm  to  meet 
Mrs.  West  and  Alison  at  one.  I  want  you  to  know 
them,  Lollie.  You  would  like  the  mother." 

"Why  not  the  daughter?"  I  inquired.  I  touched 
the  little  gold  bag  under  the  pillow. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "you've  always  declared 
against  the  immaturity  and  romantic  nonsense  of  very 
young  women — " 

"I  never  said  anything  of  the  sort,"  I  retorted  fu- 
riously. 

"  'There  is  more  satisfaction  to  be  had  out  of  a  good 
saddle  horse!'  "  he  quoted  me.  "  'More  excitement 
out  of  a  polo  pony,  and  as  for  the  eternal  matrimonial 
chase,  give  me  instead  a  good  stubble,  a  fox,  some 
decent  hounds  and  a  hunter,  and  I'll  show  you  the  real 
joys  of  the  chase !'  " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  go  down  to  the  telephone,  you 
make  my  head  ache,"  I  said  savagely. 


THE  GOLD  BAG 99 

I  hardly  know  what  prompted  me  to  take  out  the 
gold  purse  and  look  at  it.  It  was  an  imbecile  thing 
to  do — call  it  impulse,  sentimentality,  what  you  wish. 
I  brought  it  out,  one  eye  on  the  door,  for  Mrs.  Klopton 
has  a  ready  eye  and  a  noiseless  shoe.  But  the  house 
was  quiet.  Down-stairs  McKnight  was  flirting  with 
the  telephone  central  and  there  was  an  odor  of  boneset 
tea  in  the  air.  I  think  Mrs.  Klopton  was  fascinated 
out  of  her  theories  by  the  "boneset"  in  connection  with 
the  fractured  arm. 

Anyhow,  I  held  up  the  bag  and  looked  at  it.  It 
must  have  been  unfastened,  for  the  next  instant  there 
was  an  avalanche  on  the  snowfield  of  the  counterpane 
— some  money,  a  wisp  of  a  handkerchief,  a  tiny  book- 
let with  thin  leaves,  covered  with  a  powdery  substance 
— and  a  necklace.  I  drew  myself  up  slowly  and  stared 
at  the  necklace. 

It  was  one  of  the  semi-barbaric  affairs  that  women 
are  wearing  now,  a  heavy  pendant  of  gold  chains  and 
carved  cameos,  swung  from  a  thin  neck  chain  of  the 
same  metal.  The  necklace  was  broken :  in  three  places 
the  links  were  pulled  apart  and  the  cameos  swung  loose 
and  partly  detached.  But  it  was  the  supporting  chain 
that  held  my  eye  and  fascinated  with  its  sinister  sug- 
gestion. Three  inches  of  it  had  been  snapped  off,  and 
as  well  as  I  knew  anything  on  earth,  I  knew  that  the 
bit  of  chain  that  the  amateur  detective  had  found, 
blood-stain  and  all,  belonged  just  there. 

And  there  was  no  one  I  could  talk  to  about  it,  no 
one  to  tell  me  how  hideously  absurd  it  was,  no  one  to 


100     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

give  me  a  slap  and  tell  me  there  are  tons  of  fine  gold 
chains  made  every  year,  or  to  point  out  the  long  arm 
of  coincidence! 

With  my  one  useful  hand  I  fumbled  the  things 
back  into  the  bag  and  thrust  it  deep  out  of  sight  among 
the  pillows.  Then  I  lay  back  in  a  cold  perspiration. 
What  connection  had  Alison  West  with  this  crime? 
Why  had  she  stared  so  at  the  gun-metal  cigarette  case 
that  morning  on  the  train?  What  had  alarmed  her 
so  at  the  farm-house?  What  had  she  taken  back  to 
the  gate?  Why  did  she  wish  she  had  not  escaped 
from  the  wreck?  And  last,  in  Heaven's  name,  how 
did  a  part  of  her  necklace  become  torn  off  and  covered 
with  blood? 

Down-stairs  McKnight  was  still  at  the  telephone, 
and  amusing  himself  with  Mrs.  Klopton  in  the  interval 
of  waiting. 

"Why  did  he  come  home  in  a  gray  suit,  when  he 
went  away  in  a  blue?"  he  repeated.  "Well,  wrecks  are 
queer  things,  Mrs.  Klopton.  The  suit  may  have  turned 
gray  with  fright.  Or  perhaps  wrecks  do  as  queer 
stunts  as  lightning.  Friend  of  mine  once  was  struck 
by  lightning;  he  and  the  caddy  had  taken  refuge  under 
a  tree.  After  the  flash,  when  they  recovered  conscious- 
ness, there  was  my  friend  in  the  caddy's  clothes,  and 
the  caddy  in  his.  And  as  my  friend  was  a  large  man 
and  the  caddy  a  very  small  boy — " 

McKnight's  story  was  interrupted  by  the  indignant 
slam  of  the  dining-room  door.  He  was  obliged  to 


THE  GOLD  BAG  101 

wait  some  time,  and  even  his  eternal  cheerfulness  was 
ebbing-  when  he  finally  got  the  hospital. 

"Is  Doctor  Van  Kirk  there?"  he  asked.  "Not  there? 
Well,  can  you  tell  me  how  the  patient  is  whom  Doctor 
Williams,  from  Washington,  operated  on  last  night? 
Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.  Is  she  conscious?  Do  you 
happen  to  know  her  name?  Yes,  I'll  hold  the  line." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  McKnight's  voice : 

"Hello — yes.    Thank  you  very  much.    Good-by." 

He  came  up-stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  bursting  into  the  room,  "there 
may  be  something  in  your  theory,  after  all.  The 
woman's  name — it  may  be  a  coincidence,  but  it's  curi- 
ous— her  name  is  Sullivan." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  I  said,  sitting  up  suddenly 
in  bed.  "She's  probably  a  sister  of  that  scoundrel 
in  lower  seven,  and  she  was  afraid  of  what  he  might 
do." 

"Well,  I'll  go  there  some  day  soon.  She's  not  con- 
scious yet.  In  the  meantime,  the  only  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  keep  an  eye,  through  a  detective,  on  the  people 
who  try  to  approach  Bronson.  We'll  have  the  case 
continued,  anyhow,  in  the  hope  that  the  stolen  notes 
will  sooner  or  later  turn  up." 

"Confound  this  arm,"  I  said,  paying  for  my  energy 
with  some  excruciating  throbs.  "There's  so  much  to 
be  looked  after,  and  here  I  am,  bandaged,  splinted,  and 
generally  useless.  It's  a  beastly  shame." 

"Don't  forget  that  I  am  here,"  said  McKnight 
pompously.  "And  another  thing,  when  you  feel  this 


102     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

way  just  remember  there  are  two  less  desirable  places 
where  you  might  be.  One  is  jail,  and  the  other  is — " 
He  strummed  on  an  imaginary  harp,  with  devotional 
eyes. 

But  McKnight's  light-heartedness  jarred  on  me  that 
morning.  I  lay  and  frowned  under  my  helplessness. 
When  by  chance  I  touched  the  little  gold  bag,  it  seemed 
to  scorch  my  fingers.  Richey,  finding  me  unresponsive, 
left  to  keep  his  luncheon  engagement  with  Alison 
West.  As  he  clattered  down  the  stairs,  I  turned  my 
back  to  the  morning  sunshine  and  abandoned  myself 
to  misery.  By  what  strain  on  her  frayed  nerves  was 
Alison  West  keeping  up,  I  wondered?  Under  the 
circumstances,  would  I  dare  to  return  the  bag  ?  Know- 
ing that  I  had  it,  would  she  hate  me  for  my  knowl- 
edge? Or  had  I  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the 
necklace,  and  in  that  case  had  she  forgotten  me  al- 
ready ? 

But  McKnight  had  not  gone,  after  all.  I  heard  him 
coming  back,  his  voice  preceding  him,  and  I  groaned 
with  irritation. 

"Wake  up !"  he  called.  "Somebody's  sent  you  a  lot 
of  flowers.  Please  hold  the  box,  Mrs.  Klopton;  I'm 
going  out  to  be  run  down  by  an  automobile." 

I  roused  to  feeble  interest.  My  brother's  wife  is 
punctilious  about  such  things;  all  the  new  babies  in 
the  family  have  silver  rattles,  and  all  the  sick  people 
flowers. 

McKnight  pulled  up  an  armful  of  roses,  and  held 
them  out  to  me. 


THE  GOLD  BAG 103 

"Wonder  who  they're   from?"  he  said,    fumbling 
in  the  box  for  a  card.    "There's  no  name — yes,  here's 


one.' 


He  held  it  up  and  read  it  with  exasperating  slow- 
ness. 

"  'Best  wishes  for  an  early  recovery. 

A  COMPANION  IN  MISFORTUNE.' 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that !"  he  exclaimed. 
"That's  something  you  didn't  tell  me,  Lollie." 

"It  was  hardly  worth  mentioning,"  I  said  menda- 
ciously, with  my  heart  beating  until  I  could  hear  it. 
She  had  not  forgotten,  after  all. 

McKnight  took  a  bud  and  fastened  it  in  his  button- 
hole. I'm  afraid  I  was  not  especially  pleasant  about 
it.  They  were  her  roses,  and  anyhow,  they  were  meant 
for  me.  Richey  left  very  soon,  with  an  irritating  final 
grin  at  the  box. 

"Good-by,  sir  woman-hater,"  he  jeered  at  me  from 
the  door. 

So  he  wore  one  of  the  roses  she  had  sent  me,  to 
luncheon  with  her,  and  I  lay  back  among  my  pillows 
and  tried  to  remember  that  it  was  his  game,  anyhow, 
and  that  I  wasn't  even  drawing  cards.  To  remember 
that,  and  to  forget  the  broken  necklace  under  my  head ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FADED  ROSES 

I  WAS  in  the  house  for  a  week.  Much  of  that  time 
I  spent  in  composing  and  destroying  letters  of 
thanks  to  Miss  West,  and  in  growling  at  the  doctor. 
McKnight  dropped  in  daily,  but  he  was  less  cheerful 
than  usual.  Now  and  then  I  caught  him  eying  me 
as  if  he  had  something  to  say,  but  whatever  it  was  he 
kept  it  to  himself.  Once  during  the  week  he  went  to 
Baltimore  and  saw  the  woman  in  the  hospital  there. 
From  the  description  I  had  little  difficulty  in  recogniz- 
ing the  young  woman  who  had  been  with  the  murdered 
man  in  Pittsburg.  But  she  was  still  unconscious.  An 
elderly  aunt  had  appeared,  a  gaunt  person  in  black, 
who  sat  around  like  a  buzzard  on  a  fence,  according 
to  McKnight,  and  wept,  in  a  mixed  figure,  into  a  damp 
handkerchief. 

On  the  last  day  of  my  imprisonment  he  stopped  in 
to  thrash  out  a  case  that  was  coming  up  in  court  the 
next  day,  and  to  play  a  game  of  double  solitaire  with 
me. 

"Who  won  the  ball  game?"  I  asked. 

"We  were  licked.  Ask  me  something  pleasant.  Oh, 
by  the  way,  Bronson's  out  to-day." 

"I'm  glad  I'm  not  on  his  bond,"  I  said  pessimisti- 
cally. "He'll  clear  out." 

104 


FADED  ROSES 105 

"Not  he."  McKnight  pounced  on  my  ace.  "He's 
no  fool.  Don't  you  suppose  he  knows  you  took  those 
notes  to  Pittsburg?  The  papers  were  full  of  it.  And 
he  knows  you  escaped  with  your  life  and  a  broken  arm 
from  the  wreck.  What  do  we  do  next?  The  Com- 
monwealth continues  the  case.  A  deaf  man  on  a  dark 
night  would  know  those  notes  are  missing." 

"Don't  play  so  fast,"  I  remonstrated.  "I  have  only 
one  arm  to  your  two.  Who  is  trailing  Bronson  ?  Did 
you  try  to  get  Johnson  ?" 

"I  asked  for  him,  but  he  had  some  work  on  hand." 

"The  murder's  evidently  a  dead  issue,"  I  reflected. 
"No,  I'm  not  joking.  The  wreck  destroyed  all  the 
evidence.  But  I'm  firmly  convinced  those  notes  will 
be  offered,  either  to  us  or  to  Bronson  very  soon.  John- 
son's a  blackguard,  but  he's  a  good  detective.  He 
could  make  his  fortune  as  a  game  dog.  What's  he 
doing?" 

McKnight  put  down  his  cards,  and  rising,  went  to 
the  window.  As  he  held  the  curtain  back  his  custom- 
ary grin  looked  a  little  forced. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Lollie,"  he  said,  "for  the 
last  two  days  he  has  been  watching  a  well-known 
Washington  attorney  named  Lawrence  Blakeley. 
He's  across  the  street  now." 

It  took  a  moment  for  me  to  grasp  what  he  meant. 

"Why,  it's  ridiculous,"  I  asserted.  "What  would 
they  trail  me  for?  Go  over  and  tell  Johnson  to  get 
out  of  there,  or  I'll  pot  at  him  with  my  revolver." 

"You  can  tell  him  that  yourself."    McKnight  paused 


106     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

and  bent  forward.  "Hello,  here's  a  visitor ;  little  man 
with  string  halt." 

"I  won't  see  him,"  I  said  firmly.  "I've  been  both- 
ered enough  with  reporters." 

We  listened  together  to  Mrs.  Klopton's  expostulat- 
ing tones  in  the  lower  hall  and  the  creak  of  the  boards 
as  she  came  heavily  up  the  stairs.  She  had  a  piece  of 
paper  in  her  hand  torn  from  a  pocket  account-book, 
and  on  it  was  the  name,  ^Mr.  Wilson  Budd  Hotchkiss. 
Important  business." 

"Oh,  well,  show  him  up,"  I  said  resignedly.  "You'd 
better  put  those  cards  away,  Richey.  I  fancy  it's  the 
rector  of  the  church  around  the  corner." 

But  when  the  door  opened  to  admit  a  curiously  alert 
little  man,  adjusting  his  glasses  with  nervous  fingers, 
iny  face  must  have  shown  my  dismay. 

It  was  the  amateur  detective  of  the  Ontario ! 

I  shook  hands  without  enthusiasm.  Here  was  the 
one  survivor  of  the  wrecked  car  who  could  do  me  any 
amount  of  harm.  There  was  no  hope  that  he  had 
forgotten  any  of  the  incriminating  details.  In  fact, 
he  held  in  his  hand  the  very  note-book  which  contained 
them. 

His  manner  was  restrained,  but  it  was  evident  he 
was  highly  excited.  I  introduced  him  to  McKnight, 
who  has  the  imagination  I  lack,  and  who  placed  him  at 
once,  mentally. 

"I  only  learned  yesterday  that  you  had  been — er — 
spved,"  he  said  rapidly.  "Terrible  accident — unspeak- 


FADED  ROSES 107 

able.  Dream  about  it  all  night  and  think  about  it  all 
day.  Broken  arm?" 

"No.  He  just  wea'rs  the  splint  to  be  different  from 
other  people/'  McKnight  drawled  lazily.  I  glared  at 
him :  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  antagonizing 
the  little  man. 

"Yes,  a  fractured  humerus,  which  isn't  as  funny  as 
it  sounds." 

"Humerus — humorous!  Pretty  good,"  he  cackled. 
"I  must  say  you  keep  up  your  spirits  pretty  well,  con- 
sidering everything." 

"You  seem  to  have  escaped  injury,"  I  parried.  He 
was  fumbling  for  something  in  his  pockets. 

"Yes,  I  escaped,"  he  replied  abstractedly.  "Re- 
markable thing,  too.  I  haven't  a  doubt  I  would  have 
broken  my  neck,  but  I  landed  on — you'll  never  guess 
what!  I  landed  head  first  on  the  very  pillow  which 
was  under  inspection  at  the  time  of  the  wreck.  You 
remember,  don't  you?  Where  did  I  put  that  pack- 
age?" 

He  found  it  finally  and  opened  it  on  a  table,  display- 
ing with  some  theatricalism  a  rectangular  piece  of  mus- 
lin and  a  similar  patch  of  striped  ticking. 

"You  recognize  it?"  he  said.  "The  stains,  you  see, 
and  the  hole  made  by  the  dirk.  I  tried  to  bring  away 
the  entire  pillow,  but  they  thought  I  was  stealing  it, 
and  made  me  give  it  up." 

Richey  touched  the  pieces  gingerly.  "By  George," 
he  said,  "and  you  carry  that  around  in  your  pocket! 


108     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

What  if  you  should  mistake  it  for  your  handker- 
chief?" 

But  Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  not  listening.  He  stood 
bent  somewhat  forward,  leaning  over  the  table,  and 
fixed  me  with  his  ferret-like  eyes. 

"Have  you  see  the  evening  papers,  Mr.  Blakeley?" 
he  inquired. 

I  glanced  to  where  they  lay  unopened,  and  shook 
my  head. 

"Then  I  hare  a  disagreeable  task,"  he  said  with  evi- 
dent relish.  "Of  course,  you  had  considered  the  mat- 
ter of  the  man  Harrington's  death  closed,  after  the 
wreck.  I  did  myself.  As  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I 
meant  to  let  it  remain  so.  There  were  no  other  sur- 
vivors, at  least  none  that  I  knew  of,  and  in  spite  of  cir- 
cumstances, there  were  a  number  of  points  in  your 
favor." 

"Thank  you,"  I  put  in  with  a  sarcasm  that  was  lost 
on  him. 

"I  verified  your  identity,  for  instance,  as  soon  as 
I  recovered  from  the  shock.  Also — I  found  on  inquir- 
ing of  your  tailor  that  you  invariably  wore  dark  cloth- 
ing." 

McKnight  came  forward  threateningly.  "Who  are 
you,  anyhow?"  he  demanded.  "And  how  is  this  any 
business  of  yours?"  Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  entirely  un- 
ruffled. 

"I  have  a  minor  position  here,"  he  said,  reaching  for 
a  visiting  card.  "I  am  a  very  small  patch  on  the  seat 
of  government,  sir." 


FADED  ROSES  109 

McKnight  muttered  something  about  certain  offen- 
sive designs  against  the  said  patch  and  retired  grum- 
bling to  the  window.  Our  visitor  was  opening  the 
paper  with  a  tremendous  expenditure  of  energy. 

"Here  it  is.    Listen."    He  read  rapidly  aloud : 

"The  Pittsburg  police  have  sent  to  Baltimore  two 
detectives  who  are  looking  up  the  survivors  of  the 
ill-fated  Washington  Flier.  It  has  transpired  that 
Simon  Harrington,  the  Wood  Street  merchant  of  that 
city,  was  not  killed  in  the  wreck,  but  was  murdered  in 
his  berth  the  night  preceding  the  accident.  Shortly 
before  the  collision,  John  Flanders,  the  conductor  of 
the  Flier,  sent  this  telegram  to  the  chief  of  police : 

"  'Body  of  Simon  Harrington  found  stabbed  in  his 
berth,  lower  ten,  Ontario,  at  six-thirty  this  morning. 
JOHN  FLANDERS,  Conductor.' 

"It  is  hoped  that  the  survivors  of  the  wrecked  car 
Ontario  will  be  found,  to  tell  what  they  know  of  the 
discovery  of  the  crime. 

"Mr.  John  Gilmore,  head  of  the  steel  company  for 
which  Mr.  Harrington  was  purchasing  agent,  has  sig- 
nified his  intention  of  sifting  the  matter  to  the  bot- 
tom." 

"So  you  see,"  Hotchkiss  concluded,  "there's  trouble 
brewing.  You  and  I  are  the  only  survivors  of  that 
unfortunate  car." 

I  did  not  contradict  him,  but  I  knew  of  two  others, 
.at  least :  Alison  West,  and  the  woman  we  had  left  be- 


110     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

side  the  road  that  morning,  babbling  incoherently,  her 
black  hair  tumbling  over  her  white  face. 

"Unless  we  can  find  the  man  who  occupied  lower 
seven,"  I  suggested. 

"I  have  already  tried  and  failed.  To  find  him  would 
not  clear  you,  of  course,  unless  we  could  establish 
some  connection  between  him  and  the  murdered  man. 
It  is  the  only  thing  I  see,  however.  I  have  learned  this 
much,"  Hotchkiss  concluded:  "Lower  seven  was  re- 
served from  Cresson." 

Cresson !  Where  Alison  West  and  Mrs.  Curtis  had 
taken  the  train! 

McKnight  came  forward  and  suddenly  held  out  his 
hand.  "Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  he  said,  "I — I'm  sorry  if  I 
have  been  offensive.  I  thought  when  you  came  in,  that, 
like  the  Irishman  and  the  government,  you  were  'for- 
ninst'  us.  If  you  will  put  those  cheerful  relics  out  of 
sight  somewhere,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  dine 
with  me  at  the  Incubator."  (His  name  for  his  bach- 
elor apartment.)  "Compared  with  Johnson,  you  are 
the  great  original  protoplasm." 

The  strength  of  this  was  lost  on  Hotchkiss,  but  the 
invitation  was  clear.  They  went  out  together,  and 
from  my  window  I  watched  them  get  into  McKnight's 
car.  It  was  raining,  and  at  the  corner  the  Cannonball 
skidded.  Across  the  street  my  detective,  Johnson, 
looked  after  them  with  his  crooked  smile.  As  he 
turned  up  his  collar  he  saw  me,  and  lifted  his  hat. 

I  left  the  window  and  sat  down  in  the  growing  dusk. 
So  the  occupant  of  lower  seven  had  got  on  the  car  at 


FADED  ROSES 111 

Cresson,  probably  with  Alison  West  and  her  com- 
panion. There  was  some  one  she  cared  about  enough 
to  shield.  I  went  irritably  to  the  door  and  summoned 
Mrs.  Klopton. 

"You  may  throw  out  those  roses,"  I  said  without 
looking  at  her.  "They  are  quite  dead." 

"They  have  been  quite  dead  for  three  days,"  she 
retorted  spitefully.  "Euphemia  said  you  threatened 
to  dismiss  her  if  she  touched  them." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  TRAP-DOOR 

BY  Sunday  evening,  a  week  after  the  wreck,  my 
forced  inaction  had  goaded  me  to  frenzy.  The 
very  sight  of  Johnson  across  the  street  or  lurking, 
always  within  sight  of  the  house,  kept  me  constantly 
exasperated.  It  was  on  that  day  that  things  began  to 
come  to  a  focus,  a  burning-glass  of  events  that  seemed 
to  center  on  me. 

I  dined  alone  that  evening  in  no  cheerful  frame  of 
mind.  There  had  been  a  polo  game  the  day  before 
and  I  had  lent  a  pony,  which  is  always  a  bad  thing  to 
do.  And  she  had  wrenched  her  shoulder,  besides  help- 
ing to  lose  the  game.  There  was  no  one  in  town :  the 
temperature  was  ninety  and  climbing,  and  mv  left 
hand  persistently  cramped  under  its  bandage. 

Mrs.  Klopton  herself  saw  me  served,  my  bread  but- 
tered and  cut  in  tidbits,  my  meat  ready  for  my  fork. 
She  hovered  around  me  maternally,  obviously  trying 
to  cheer  me. 

"The  paper  says  still  warmer,"  she  ventured.  "The 
thermometer  is  ninety-two  now." 

"And  this  coffee  is  two  hundred  and  fifty,"  I  said, 
putting  down  my  cup.  "Where  is  Euphemia?  I 
haven't  seen  her  around,  or  heard  a  dish  smash  all 
day." 

112 


THE  TRAP-DOOR 113 

"Euphemia  is  in  bed,"  Mrs.  Klopton  said  gravely. 
"Is  your  meat  cut  small  enough,  Mr.  Lawrence?"  Mrs. 
Klopton  can  throw  more  mystery  into  an  ordinary  sen- 
tence than  any  one  I  know.  She  can  say,  "Are  your 
sheets  damp,  sir?"  And  I  can  tell  from  her  tone  that 
the  house  across  the  street  has  been  robbed,  or  that 
my  left  hand  neighbor  has  appendicitis.  So  now  I 
looked  up  and  asked  the  question  she  was  waiting  for. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Euphemia?"  I  inquired 
idly. 

"Frightened  into  her  bed,"  Mrs.  Klopton  said  in  a 
stage  whisper.  "She's  had  three  hot  water  bottles  and 
she  hasn't  done  a  thing  all  day  but  moan." 

"She  oughtn't  to  take  hot  water  bottles,"  I  said  in 
my  severest  tone.  "One  would  make  me  moan.  You 
need  not  wait,  I'll  ring  if  I  need  anything." 

Mrs.  Klopton  sailed  to  the  door,  where  she  stopped 
and  wheeled  indignantly.  "I  only  hope  you  won't 
laugh  on  the  wrong  side  of  your  face  some  morning, 
Mr.  Lawrence,"  she  declared,  with  Christian  forti- 
tude. "But  I  warn  you,  I  am  going  to  have  the  police 
watch  that  house  next  door." 

I  was  half  inclined  to  tell  her  that  both  it  and  we 
were  under  police  surveillance  at  that  moment.  But 
I  like  Mrs.  Klopton,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  make 
her  life  a  torment  for  her,  so  I  refrained. 

"Last  night,  when  the  paper  said  it  was  going  to 
storm,  I  sent  Euphemia  to  the  roof  to  bring  the  rugs 
in.  Eliza  had  slipped  out,  although  it  was  her  evening 
in.  Euphemia  went  up  to  the  roof — it  was  eleven 


114     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

o'clock — and  soon  I  heard  her  running  down-stairs 
crying.  When  she  got  to  my  room  she  just  folded  up 
on  the  floor.  She  said  there  was  a  black  figure  sitting 
on  the  parapet  of  the  house  next  door — the  empty 
house — and  that  when  she  appeared  it  rose  and  waved 
long  black  arms  at  her  and  spit  like  a  cat." 

I  had  finished  my  dinner  and  was  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette. "If  there  was  any  one  up  there,  which  I  doubt, 
they  probably  sneezed,"  I  suggested.  "But  if  you  feel 
uneasy,  I'll  take  a  look  around  the  roof  to-night  before 
I  turn  in.  As  far  as  Euphemia  goes,  I  wouldn't  be 
uneasy  about  her — doesn't  she  always  have  an  attack 
of  some  sort  when  Eliza  rings  in  an  extra  evening  on 
her?" 

So  I  made  a  superficial  examination  of  the  window 
locks  that  night,  visiting  parts  of  the  house  that  I  had 
not  seen  since  I  bought  it.  Then  I  went  to  the  roof. 
Evidently  it  had  not  been  intended  for  any  purpose 
save  to  cover  the  house,  for  unlike  the  houses  around, 
there  was  no  staircase.  A  ladder  and  a  trap-door  led 
to  it,  and  it  required  some  nice  balancing  on  my  part 
to  get  up  with  my  useless  arm.  I  made  it,  however, 
and  found  this  unexplored  part  of  my  domain  rather 
attractive.  It  was  cooler  than  down-stairs,  and  I  sat 
on  the  brick  parapet  and  smoked  my  final  cigarette. 
The  roof  of  the  empty  house  adjoined  mine  along  the 
back  wing,  but  investigation  showed  that  the  trap-door 
across  the  low  dividing  wall  was  bolted  underneath. 

There  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  anywhere, 
and  so  I  assured  Mrs.  Klopton.  Needless  to  say,  I 


THE  TRAP-DOOR 115 

did  not  tell  her  that  I  had  left  the  trap-door  open,  to 
see  if  it  would  improve  the  temperature  of  the  house. 
I  went  to  bed  at  midnight,  merely  because  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  I  turned  on  the  night  lamp  at  the 
head  of  my  bed,  and  picked  up  a  volume  of  Shaw  at 
rarldom  (it  was  Arms  and  the  Man,  and  I  remember 
thinking  grimly  that  I  was  a  good  bit  of  a  chocolate 
cream  soldier  myself),  and  prepared  to  go  to  sleep. 
Shaw  always  puts  me  to  sleep.  I  have  no  apologies 
to  make  for  what  occurred  that  night,  and  not  even  an 
explanation  that  I  am  sure  of.  I  did  a  foolish  thing 
under  impulse,  and  I  have  not  been  sorry. 

It  was  something  after  two  when  the  door-bell  rang. 
It  rang  quickly,  twice.  I  got  up  drowsily,  for  the 
maids  and  Mrs.  Klopton  always  lock  themselves  be- 
yond reach  of  the  bell  at  night,  and  put  on  a  dressing- 
gown.  The  bell  rang  again  on  my  way  down-stairs. 
I  lit  the  hall  light  and  opened  the  door.  I  was  wide- 
awake now,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  Johnson.  His  bald 
head  shone  in  the  light — his  crooked  mouth  was 
twisted  in  a  smile. 

"Good  Heavens,  man,"  I  said  irritably.  "Don't  you 
ever  go  home  and  go  to  bed  ?" 

He  closed  the  vestibule  door  behind  him  and  cava- 
lierly turned  out  the  light.  Our  dialogue  was  sharp, 
staccato. 

"Have  you  a  key  to  the  empty  house  next  door?" 
he  demanded,  "Somebody's  in  there,  and  the  latch  is 
caught." 


116     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"The  houses  are  alike.  The  key  to  this  door  may 
fit.  Did  you  see  them  go  in?" 

"No.  There's  a  light  moving  up  from  room  to 
room.  I  saw  something  like  it  last  night,  and  I  have 
been  watching.  The  patrolman  reported  queer  doings 
there  a  week  or  so  ago." 

"A  light!"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  that 
you — " 

"Very  likely,"  he  said  grimly.  "Have  you  a  re- 
volver ?" 

"All  kinds  in  the  gun  rack,"  I  replied,  and  going 
into  the  den,  I  came  back  with  a  Smith  and  Wesson. 
"I'm  not  much  use,"  I  explained,  "with  this  arm,  but 
I'll  do  what  I  can.  There  may  be  somebody  there. 
The  servants  here  have  been  uneasy." 

Johnson  planned  the  campaign.  He  suggested  on 
account  of  my  familiarity  with  the  roof,  that  I  go 
there  and  cut  off  escape  in  that  direction.  "I  have 
Robison  out  there  now — the  patrolman  on  the  beat," 
he  said.  "He'll  watch  below  and  you  above,  while  I 
search  the  house.  Be  as  quiet  as  possible." 

I  was  rather  amused.  I  put  on  some  clothes  and 
felt  my  way  carefully  up  the  stairs,  the  revolver  swing- 
ing free  in  my  pocket,  my  hand  on  the  rail.  At  the 
foot  of  the  ladder  I  stopped  and  looked  up.  Above 
me  there  was  a  gray  rectangle  of  sky  dotted  with  stars. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  with  my  one  serviceable  hand 
holding  the  ladder,  I  was  hardly  in  a  position  to  defend 
myself,  that  I  was  about  to  hoist  a  body  that  I  am 
rather  careful  of  into  a  danger  I  couldn't  see  and 


THE  TRAP-DOOR 117 

wasn't  particularly  keen  about  anyhow.  I  don't  mind 
saying  that  the  seconds  it  took  me  to  scramble  up  the 
ladder  were  among  the  most  unpleasant  that  I  recall. 

I  got  to  the  top,  however,  without  incident.  I  could 
see  fairly  well  after  the  darkness  of  the  house  beneath, 
but  there  was  nothing  suspicious  in  sight.  The  roofs, 
separated  by  two  feet  of  brick  wall,  stretched  around 
me,  unbroken  save  by  an  occasional  chimney.  I  went 
very  softly  over  to  the  other  trap,  the  one  belonging 
to  the  suspected  house.  It  was  closed,  but  I  imagined 
I  could  hear  Johnson's  footsteps  ascending  heavily. 
Then  even  that  was  gone.  A  near-by  clock  struck 
three  as  I  stood  waiting.  I  examined  my  revolver 
then,  for  the  first  time,  and  found  it  was  empty ! 

I  had  been  rather  skeptical  until  now.  I  had  had 
the  usual  tolerant  attitude  of  the  man  who  is  sum- 
moned from  his  bed  to  search  for  burglars,  combined 
with  the  artificial  courage  of  firearms.  With  the  dis- 
covery of  my  empty  gun,  I  felt  like  a  man  on  the  top 
of  a  volcano  in  lively  eruption.  Suddenly  I  found  my- 
self staring  incredulously  at  the  trap-door  at  my  feet. 
I  had  examined  it  early  in  the  evening  and  found  it 
bolted.  Did  I  imagine  it,  or  had  it  raised  about  an 
inch?  Wasn't  it  moving  slowly  as  I  looked?  No,  I 
am  not  a  hero :  I  was  startled  almost  into  a  panic.  I 
had  one  arm,  and  whoever  was  raising  that  trap-door 
had  two.  My  knees  had  a  queer  inclination  to  bend 
the  wrong  way. 

Johnson's  footsteps  were  distinct  enough,  but  he 
was  evidently  far  below.  The  trap,  raised  perhaps  two 


118     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

inches  now,  remained  stationary.  There  was  no  sound 
from  beneath  it:  once  I  thought  I  heard  two  or  three 
gasping  respirations :  I  am  not  sure  they  were  not  my 
own.  I  wanted  desperately  to  stand  on  one  leg  at  a 
time  and  hold  the  other  up  out  of  focus  of  a  possible 
revolver. 

I  did  not  see  the  hand  appear.  There  was  nothing 
there,  and  then  it  was  there,  clutching  the  frame  of 
the  trap.  I  did  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of ;  I  put 
my  foot  on  it! 

There  was  not  a  sound  from  beneath.  The  next 
moment  I  was  kneeling  and  had  clutched  the  wrist  just 
above  the  hand.  After  a  second's  struggle,  the  arm 
was  still.  With  something  real  to  face,  I  was  myself 
again. 

"Don't  move,  or  I'll  stand  on  the  trap  and  break 
your  arm,"  I  panted.  What  else  could  I  threaten?  I 
couldn't  shoot,  I  couldn't  even  fight.  "Johnson!"  I 
called. 

And  then  I  realized  the  thing  that  stayed  with  me 
for  a  month,  the  thing  I  can  not  think  of  even  now 
without  a  shudder.  The  hand  lay  ice  cold,  strangely 
quiescent.  Under  my  fingers,  an  artery  was  beating 

feebly.  The  wrist  was  as  slender  as 1  held  the 

hand  to  the  light.  Then  I  let  it  drop. 

"Good  Lord,"  I  muttered,  and  remained  on  my 
knees,  staring  at  the  spot  where  the  hand  had  been. 
It  was  gone  now :  there  was  a  faint  rustle  in  the  dark- 
ness below,  and  then  silence. 

I  held  up  my  own  hand  in  the  starlight  and  stared 


THE  TRAP-DOOR 119 

at  a  long  scratch  in  the  palm.  "A  woman!"  I  said 
to  myself  stupidly.  "By  all  that's  ridiculous,  a 
woman !" 

Johnson  was  striking  matches  below  and  swearing 
softly  to  himself.  "How  the  devil  do  you  get  to  the 
roof?"  he  called.  "I  think  I've  broken  my  nose!" 

He  found  the  ladder  after  a  short  search  and  stood 
at  the  bottom,  looking  up  at  me.  "Well,  I  suppose  you 
haven't  seen  him?"  he  inquired.  "There  are  enough 
darned  cubbyholes  in  this  house  to  hide  a  patrol  wagon 
load  of  thieves."  He  lighted  a  fresh  match.  "Hello, 
here's  another  door!" 

By  the  sound  of  his  diminishing  footsteps  I  sup- 
posed it  was  a  rear  staircase.  He  came  up  again  in 
ten  minutes  or  so,  this  time  with  the  policeman. 

"He's  gone,  all  right,"  he  said  ruefully.  "If  you'd 
been  attending  to  your  business,  Robison,  you'd  have 
watched  the  back  door." 

"I'm  not  twins."    Robison  was  surly. 

"Well,"  I  broke  in,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  "if  you 
are  through  with  this  jolly  little  affair,  and  can  get 
down  my  ladder  without  having  my  housekeeper  ring 
the  burglar  alarm,  I  have  some  good  Monongahela 
whisky— eh?" 

They  came  without  a  second  invitation  across  the 
roof,  and  with  them  safely  away  from  the  house  I 
breathed  more  freely.  Down  in  the  den  I  fulfilled  my 
promise,  which  Johnson  drank  to  the  toast,  "Coming 
through  the  rye."  He  examined  my  gun  rack  with 


120     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

the  eye  of  a  connoisseur,  and  even  when  he  was  about 
to  go  he  cast  a  loving  eye  back  at  the  weapons. 

"Ever  been  in  the  army?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  I  said  with  a  bitterness  that  he  noticed  but 
failed  to  comprehend.  "I'm  a  chocolate  cream  soldier 
— you  don't  read  Shaw,  I  suppose,  Johnson  ?" 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  the  detective  said  indiffer- 
ently. "Well,  good  night,  Mr.  Blakeley.  Much 
obliged."  At  the  door  he  hesitated  and  coughed. 

"I  suppose  you  understand,  Mr.  Blakeley,"  he  said 
awkwardly,  "that  this — er — surveillance  is  all  in  the 
day's  work.  I  don't  like  it,  but  it's  duty.  Every  man 
to  his  duty,  sir." 

"Sometime  when  you  are  in  an  open  mood,  John- 
son," I  returned,  "you  can  explain  why  I  am  being 
watched  at  all." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CINEMATOGRAPH 

ON  Monday  I  went  out  for  the  first  time.  I  did 
not  go  to  the  office.  I  wanted  to  walk.  I 
thought  fresh  air  and  exercise  would  drive  away  the 
blue  devils  that  had  me  by  the  throat.  McKnight  in- 
sisted on  a  long  day  in  his  car,  but  I  refused. 

"I  don't  know  why  not,"  he  said  sulkily.  "I  can't 
walk.  I  haven't  walked  two  consecutive  blocks  in 
three  years.  Automobiles  have  made  legs  mere  orna- 
ments— and  some  not  even  that.  We  could  have  John- 
son out  there  chasing  us  over  the  country  at  five  dollars 
an  hour!" 

"He  can  chase  us  just  as  well  at  five  miles  an  hour," 
I  said.  "But  what  gets  me,  McKnight,  is  why  I  am 
under  surveillance  at  all.  How  do  the  police  know  / 
was  accused  of  that  thing?" 

"The  young  lady  who  sent  the  flowers — she  isn't 
likely  to  talk,  is  she?" 

"No.  That  is,  I  didn't  say  it  was  a  lady."  I 
groaned  as  I  tried  to  get  my  splinted  arm  into  a  coat. 
"Anyhow,  she  didn't  tell,"  I  finished  with  conviction, 
and  McKnight  laughed. 

It  had  rained  in  the  early  morning,  and  Mrs.  Klop- 
ton  predicted  more  showers.  In  fact,  so  firm  was  her 
belief  and  so  determined  her  eye  that  I  took  the  um- 
brella she  proffered  me. 


122     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "We  can  leave  it  next  door ; 
I  have  a  story  to  tell  you,  Richey,  and  it  requires  proper 
setting." 

McKnight  was  puzzled,  but  he  followed  me  obe- 
diently round  to  the  kitchen  entrance  of  the  empty 
house.  It  was  unlocked,  as  I  had  expected.  While 
we  climbed  to  the  upper  floor  I  retailed  the  events  of 
the  previous  night. 

"It's  the  finest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  McKnight 
•said,  staring  up  at  the  ladder  and  the  trap.  "What 
a  vaudeville  skit  it  would  make !  Only  you  ought  not 
to  have  put  your  foot  on  her  hand.  They  don't  do  it 
in  the  best  circles." 

I  wheeled  on  him  impatiently. 

"You  don't  understand  the  situation  at  all,  Richey !" 
I  exclaimed.  "What  would  you  say  if  I  tell  you  it 
was  the  hand  of  a  lady?  It  was  covered  with  rings." 

"A  lady!"  he  repeated.  "Why,  I'd  say  it  was  a 
darned  compromising  situation,  and  that  the  less  you 
say  of  it  the  better.  Look  here,  Lawrence,  I  think  you 
dreamed  it.  You've  been  in  the  house  too  much.  I 
take  it  all  back:  you  do  need  exercise." 

"She  escaped  through  this  door,  I  suppose,"  I  said 
as  patiently  as  I  could.  "Evidently  down  the  back 
staircase.  We  might  as  well  go  down  that  way." 

"According  to  the  best  precedents  in  these  affairs, 
we  should  find  a  glove  about  here,"  he  said  as  we 
started  down.  But  he  was  more  impressed  than  he 
cared  to  own.  He  examined  the  dusty  steps  carefully, 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         123 

and  once,  when  a  bit  of  loose  plaster  fell  just  behind 
him,  he  started  like  a  nervous  woman. 

"What  I  don't  understand  is  why  you  let  her  go," 
he  said,  stopping  once,  puzzled.  "You're  not  usually 
quixotic." 

"When  we  get  out  into  the  country,  Richey,"  I  re- 
plied gravely,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  another  story, 
and  if  you  don't  tell  me  I'm  a  fool  and  a  craven,  on 
the  strength  of  it,  you  are  no  friend  of  mine." 

We  stumbled  through  the  twilight  of  the  staircase 
into  the  blackness  of  the  shuttered  kitchen.  The  house 
had  the  moldy  smell  of  closed  buildings :  even  on  that 
warm  September  morning  it  was  damp  and  chilly.  As 
we  stepped  into  the  sunshine  McKnight  gave  a  shiver. 

"Now  that  we  are  out,"  he  said,  "I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  I  have  been  there  before.  Do  you  remember 
the  night  you  left,  and  the  face  at  the  window?" 

"When  you  speak  of  it — yes." 

"Well,  I  was  curious  about  that  thing,"  he  went  on, 
as  we  started  up  the  street,  "and  I  went  back.  The 
street  door  was  unlocked,  and  I  examined  every  room. 
I  was  Mrs.  Klopton's  ghost  that  carried  a  light,  and 
dumb." 

"Did  you  find  anything?" 

"Only  a  clean  place  rubbed  on  the  window  opposite 
your  dressing-room.  Splendid  view  of  an  untidy  in- 
terior. If  that  house  is  ever  occupied,  you'd  better 
put  stained  glass  in  that  window  of  yours." 

As  we  turned  the  corner  I  glanced  back.  Half  a 
block  behind  us  Johnson  was  moving  our  way  slowly. 


124      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

When  he  saw  me  he  stopped  and  proceeded  with  great 
deliberation  to  light  a  cigar.  By  hurrying,  however, 
he  caught  the  car  that  we  took,  and  stood  unobtrusively 
on  the  rear  platform.  He  looked  fagged,  and  absent- 
mindedly  paid  our  fares,  to  McKnight's  delight. 

"We  will  give  him  a  run  for  his  money,"  he  de- 
clared, as  the  car  moved  countryward.  "Conductor, 
let  us  off  at  the  muddiest  lane  you  can  find." 

At  one  o'clock,  after  a  six-mile  ramble,  we  entered 
a  small  country  hotel.  We  had  seen  nothing  of  John- 
son for  a  half  hour.  At  that  time  he  was  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  behind  us,  and  losing  rapidly.  Before  we  had 
finished  our  luncheon  he  staggered  into  the  inn.  One 
of  his  boots  was  under  his  arm,  and  his  whole  appear- 
ance was  deplorable.  He  was  coated  with  mud, 
streaked  with  perspiration,  and  he  limped  as  he  walked. 
He  chose  a  table  not  far  from  us  and  ordered  Scotch. 
Beyond  touching  his  hat  he  paid  no  attention  to  us. 

"I'm  just  getting  my  second  wind,"  McKnight  de- 
clared. "How  do  you  feel,  Mr.  Johnson?  Six  or 
eight  miles  more  and  we'll  all  enjoy  our  dinners." 
Johnson  put  down  the  glass  he  had  raised  to  his  lips 
without  replying. 

The  fact  was,  however,  that  I  was  like  Johnson.  I 
was  soft  from  my  week's  inaction,  and  I  was  pretty 
well  done  up.  McKnight,  who  was  a  well  spring  of 
vitality  and  high  spirits,  ordered  a  strange  concoction, 
made  of  nearly  everything  in  the  bar,  and  sent  it  over 
to  the  detective,  but  Johnson  refused  it. 

"I  hate  that  kind  of  person,"  McKnight  said  pet- 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         125 

tishly.  "Kind  of  a  fellow  that  thinks  you're  going  to 
poison  his  dog  if  you  offer  him  a  bone." 

When  we  got  back  to  the  car  line,  with  Johnson  a 
draggled  and  drooping  tail  to  the  kite,  I  was  in  better 
spirits.  I  had  told  McKnight  the  story  of  the  three 
hours  just  after  the  wreck;  I  had  not  named  the  girl, 
of  course;  she  had  my  promise  of  secrecy.  But  I  told 
him  everything  else.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  a  fresh 
mind  on  it :  I  had  puzzled  so  much  over  the  incident 
at  the  farm-house,  and  the  necklace  in  the  gold  bag, 
that  I  had  lost  perspective. 

He  had  been  interested,  but  inclined  to  be  amused, 
until  I  came  to  the  broken  chain.  Then  he  had  whis- 
tled softly. 

"But  there  are  tons  of  fine  gold  chains  made  every 
year,"  he  said.  "Why  in  the  world  do  you  think  that 
the — er — smeary  piece  came  from  that  necklace?" 

I  had  looked  around.  Johnson  was  far  behind, 
scraping  the  mud  off  his  feet  with  a  piece  of  stick. 

"I  have  the  short  end  of  the  chain  in  the  sealskin 
bag,"  I  reminded  him.  "When  I  couldn't  sleep  this 
morning  I  thought  I  would  settle  it,  one  way  or  the 
other.  It  was  hell  to  go  along  the  way  I  had  been 
doing.  And — there's  no  doubt  about  it,  Rich.  It's 
the  same  chain." 

We  walked  along  in  silence  until  we  caught  the  car 
back  to  town. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "you  know  the  girl,  of 
course,  and  I  don't.  But  if  you  like  her — and  I  think 
myself  you're  rather  hard  hit,  old  man — I  wouldn't 


126     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

give  a  whoop  about  the  chain  in  the  gold  purse.  It's 
just  one  of  the  little  coincidences  that  hang  people  now 
and  then.  And  as  for  last  night — if  she's  the  kind 
of  a  girl  you  say  she  is,  and  you  think  she  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  that,  you — you're  addled,  that's  all. 
You  can  depend  on  it,  the  lady  of  the  empty  house  last 
week  is  the  lady  of  last  night.  And  yet  your  train 
acquaintance  was  in  Altoona  at  that  time." 

Just  before  we  got  off  the  car,  I  reverted  to  the 
subject  again.  It  was  never  far  back  in  my  mind. 

"About  the — young  lady  of  the  train,  Rich,"  I  said, 
with  what  I  suppose  was  elaborate  carelessness,  "I 
don't  want  you  to  get  a  wrong  impression.  I  am 
rather  unlikely  to  see  her  again,  but  even  if  I  do,  I — 
I  believe  she  is  already  'bespoke,'  or  next  thing  to  it." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  as  I  opened  the  door  with 
my  latch-key  he  stood  looking  up  at  me  from  the  pave- 
ment with  his  quizzical  smile. 

"Love  is  like  the  measles,"  he  orated.  "The  older 
you  get  it,  the  worse  the  attack." 

Johnson  did  not  appear  again  that  day.  A  small 
man  in  a  raincoat  took  his  place.  The  next  morning 
I  made  my  initial  trip  to  the  office,  the  raincoat  still 
on  hand.  I  had  a  short  conference  with  Miller,  the 
district  attorney,  at  eleven.  Bronson  was  under  sur- 
veillance, he  said,  and  any  attempt  to  sell  the  notes 
to  him  would  probably  result  in  their  recovery.  In 
the  meantime,  as  I  knew,  the  Commonwealth  had  con- 
tinued the  case,  in  hope  of  such  contingency. 

At  noon  I  left  the  office  and  took  a  veterinarian  to 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         127 

see  Candida,  the  injured  pony.  By  one  o'clock  my  first 
day's  duties  were  performed,  and  a  long  Sahara  of 
hot  afternoon  stretched  ahead.  McKnight,  always 
glad  to  escape  from  the  grind,  suggested  a  vaudeville, 
and  in  sheer  ennui  I  consented.  I  could  neither  ride, 
drive  nor  golf,  and  my  own  company  bored  me  to  dis- 
traction. 

"Coolest  place  in  town  these  days,"  he  declared. 
"Electric  fans,  breezy  songs,  airy  costumes.  And 
there's  Johnson  just  behind — the  coldest  proposition 
in  Washington." 

He  gravely  bought  three  tickets  and  presented  the 
detective  with  one.  Then  we  went  in.  Having  lived 
a  normal,  busy  life,  the  theater  in  the  afternoon  is  to 
me  about  on  a  par  with  ice-cream  for  breakfast.  Up 
on  the  stage  a  very  stout  woman  in  short  pink  skirts, 
with  a  smile  that  McKnight  declared  looked  like  a 
slash  in  a  roll  of  butter,  was  singing  nasally,  with  a 
laborious  kick  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  Johnson,  two 
rows  ahead,  went  to  sleep.  McKnight  prodded  me 
with  his  elbow. 

"Look  at  the  first  box  to  the  right,"  he  said,  in  a 
stage  whisper.  "I  want  you  to  come  over  at  the  end 
of  this  act." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  since  I  put  her 
in  the  cab  at  Baltimore.  Outwardly  I  presume  I  was 
calm,  for  no  one  turned  to  stare  at  me,  but  every  atom 
of  me  cried  out  at  the  sight  of  her.  'She  was  leaning, 
bent  forward,  lips  slightly  parted,  gazing  raptly  at  the 
Japan«se  conjurer  who  had  replaced  what  McKnight 


128     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

disrespectfully  called  the  Columns  of  Hercules.  Com- 
pared with  the  draggled  lady  of  the  farm-house,  she 
•was  radiant. 

For  that  first  moment  there  was  nothing  but  joy 
at  the  sight  of  her.  McKnight's  touch  on  my  arm 
brought  me  back  to  reality. 

"Come  over  and  meet  them,"  he  said.  "That's  the 
cousin  Miss  West  is  visiting,  Mrs.  Dallas." 

But  I  would  not  go.  After  he  went  I  sat  there  alone, 
painfully  conscious  that  I  was  being  pointed  out  and 
stared  ai:  from  the  box..  The  abominable  Japanese 
gave  way  to  yet  more  atrocious  performing  dogs. 

"How  many  offers  of  marriage  will  the  young  lady 
in  the  box  have?"  The  dog  stopped  sagely  at  'none,' 
and  then  pulled  out  a  card  that  said  eight.  Wild  shouts 
of  glee  by  the  audience.  "The  fools,"  I  muttered. 

After  a  little  I  glanced  over.  Mrs.  Dallas  was  talking 
to  McKnight,  but  She  was  looking  straight  at  me. 
She  was  flushed,  but  more  calm  than  I,  and  she  did  not 
bow.  I  fumbled  for  my  hat,  but  the  next  moment  I 
saw  that  they  were  going,  and  I  sat  still.  When  Mc- 
Knight came  back  he  was  triumphant. 

"I've  made  an  engagement  for  you,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Dallas  asked  me  to  bring  you  to  dinner  to-night,  and 
I  said  I  knew  you  would  fall  all  over  yourself  to  go. 
You  are  requested  to  bring  along  the  broken  arm,  and 
any  other  souvenirs  of  the  wreck  that  you  may  pos- 
sess." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  declared,  struggling 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         129 

against  my  inclination.  "I  can't  even  tie  my  necktie, 
and  I  have  to  have  my  food  cut  for  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said  easily.  "I'll  send 
Stogie  over  to  fix  you  up,  and  Mrs.  Dal  knows  all 
about  the  arm.  I  told  her." 

(Stogie  is  his  Japanese  factotum,  so  called  because 
he  is  lean,  a  yellowish  brown  in  color,  and  because 
he  claims  to  have  been  shipped  into  this  country  in  a 
box.) 

The  Cinematograph  was  finishing  the  program. 
The  house  was  dark  and  the  music  had  stopped,  as 
it  does  in  the  circus  just  before  somebody  risks  his 
neck  at  so  much  a  neck  in  the  Dip  of  Death,  or  the 
hundred-foot  dive.  Then,  with  a  sort  of  shock,  I  saw 
on  the  white  curtain  the  announcement : 

THE  NEXT  PICTURE 

IS  THE  DOOMED  WASHINGTON  FLIER,  TAKEN  A 
SHORT  DISTANCE  FROM  THE  SCENE  OF  THE 
WRECK  ON  THE  FATAL  MORNING  OF  SEPTEMBER 
TENTH.  TWO  MILES  FARTHER  ON  IT  MET  WITH 
ALMOST  COMPLETE  ANNIHILATION. 

I  confess  to  a  return  of  some  of  the  sickening  sen- 
sations of  the  wreck;  people  around  me  were  leaning 
forward  with  tense  faces.  Then  the  letters  were  gone, 
and  I  saw  a  long  level  stretch  of  track,  even  the  broken 
stone  between  the  ties  standing  out  distinctly.  Far  off 
under  a  cloud  of  smoke  a  small  object  was  rushing 
toward  us  and  growing  larger  as  it  came. 


130     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Now  it  was  on  us,  a  mammoth  in  size,  with  huge 
drivers  and  a  colossal  tender.  The  engine  leaped  aside, 
as  if  just  in  time  to  save  us  from  destruction,  with  a 
glimpse  of  a  stooping  fireman  and  a  grimy  engineer. 
The  long  train  of  sleepers  followed.  From  a  forward 
vestibule  a  porter  in  a  white  coat  waved  his  hand.  The 
rest  of  the  cars  seemed  still  wrapped  in  slumber.  With 
mixed  sensations  I  saw  my  own  car,  Ontario,  fly  past, 
and  then  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  gripped  McKnight's 
shoulder. 

On  the  lowest  step  at  the  last  car,  one  foot  hanging 
free,  was  a  man.  His  Black  derby  hat  was  pulled  well 
down  to  keep  it  from  blowing  away,  and  his  coat  was 
flying  open  in  the  wind.  He  was  swung  well  out  from 
the  car,  his  free  hand  gripping  a  small  valise,  every 
muscle  tense  for  a  jump. 

"Good  God,  that's  my  man !"  I  said  hoarsely,  as  the 
audience  broke  into  applause.  McKnight  hait  rose :  in 
his  seat  ahead  Johnson  stifled  a  yawn  and  turned  to 
eye  me. 

I  dropped  into  my  chair  limply,  and  tried  to  control 
my  excitement.  "The  man  on  the  last  platform  of 
the  train,"  I  said.  "He  was  just  about  to  leap;  I'll 
swear  that  was  my  bag." 

"Could  you  see  his  face?"  McKnight  asked  in  an 
undertone.  "Would  you  know  him  again?" 

"No.  His  hat  was  pulled  down  and  his  head  was 
bent.  I'm  going  back  to  find  out  where  that  picture 
was  taken.  They  say  two  miles,  but  it  may  have  been 
forty." 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         131 

The  audience,  busy  with  its  wraps,  had  not  noticed. 
Mrs.  Dallas  and  Alison  West  had  gone.  In  front  of 
us  Johnson  had  dropped  his  hat  and  was  stooping  for 
it. 

"This  way,"  I  motioned  to  McKnight,  and  we 
wheeled  into  the  narrow  passage  beside  us,  back  of 
the  boxes.  At  the  end  there  was  a  door  leading  into 
the  wings,  and  as  we  went  boldly  through  I  turned  the 
key. 

The  final  set  was  being  struck,  and  no  one  paid 
any  attention  to  us.  Luckily  they  were  similarly  in- 
different to  a  banging  at  the  door  I  had  locked,  a  bang- 
ing which,  I  judged,  signified  Johnson. 

"I  guess  we've  broken  up  his  interference,"  Mc- 
Knight chuckled. 

Stage  hands  were  hurrying  in  every  direction ;  pieces 
of  the  side  wall  of  the  last  drawing-room  menaced  us ; 
a  switchboard  behind  us  was  singing  like  a  tea-kettle. 
Everywhere  we  stepped  we  were  in  somebody's  way. 
At  last  we  were  across,  confronting  a  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  who  by  dots  and  dashes  of  profanity  seemed 
to  be  directing  the  chaos. 

"Well?"  he  said,  wheeling  on  us.  "What  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

"I  would  like  to  ask,"  I  replied,  "if  you  have  any 
idea  just  where  the  last  cinematograph  picture  was 
taken." 

"Broken  board — picnickers — lake?" 

"No.    The  Washington  Flier." 

He  glanced  at  my  bandaged  arm. 


132      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"The  announcement  says  two  miles,"  McKnight  put 
in,  "but  we  should  like  to  know  whether  it  is  railroad 
miles,  automobile  miles,  or  policeman  miles." 

"I  am  sorry  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  replied,  more  civilly. 
"We  get  those  pictures  by  contract.  We  don't  take 
them  ourselves." 

"Where  are  the  company's  offices?" 

"New  York."  He  stepped  forward  and  grasped 
a  super  by  the  shoulder.  "What  in  blazes  are  you 
doing  with  that  gold  chair  m  a  kitchen  set  ?  Take  that 
piece  of  pink  plush  there  and  throw  it  over  a  soap  box, 
if  you  haven't  got  a  kitchen  chair." 

I  had  not  realized  the  extent  of  the  shock,  but  now 
I  dropped  into  a  chair  and  wiped  my  forehead.  The 
unexpected  glimpse  of  Alison  West,  followed  almost 
immediately  by  the  revelation  of  the  picture,  had  left 
me  limp  and  unnerved.  McKnight  was  looking  at  his 
watch. 

"He  says  the  moving  picture  people  have  an  office 
down-town.  We  can  make  it  if  we  go  now." 

So  he  called  a  cab,  and  we  started  at  a  gallop.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  detective.  "Upon  my  word," 
Richey  said,  "I  feel  lonely  without  him." 

The  people  at  the  down-town  office  of  the  cinemato- 
graph company  were  very  obliging.  The  picture  had 

been  taken,  they  said,  at  M ,  just  two  miles  beyond 

the  scene  of  the  wreck.  It  was  not  much,  but  it  was 
something  to  work  on.  I  decided  not  to  go  home,  but 
to  send  McKnight's  Jap  for  my  clothes,  and  to  dress 
at  the  Incubator.  I  was  determined,  if  possible,  to 


THE  CINEMATOGRAPH         133 

make  my  next  day's  investigations  without  Johnson. 
In  the  meantime,  even  if  it  was  for  the  last  time,  I 
would  see  Her  that  night.  I  gave  Stogie  a  note  for 
Mrs.  Klopton,  and  with  my  dinner  clothes  there  came 
back  the  gold  bag,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL 

/CERTAIN  things  about  the  dinner  at  the  Dallas 
\^><  house  will  always  be  obscure  to  me.  Dallas  was 
something  in  the  Fish  Commission,  and  I  remember 
his  reeling  off  fish  eggs  in  billions  while  we  ate  our 
caviar.  He  had  some  particular  stunt  he  had  been 
urging  the  government  to  for  years — something  about 
forbidding  the  establishment  of  mills  and  factories  on 
river-banks — it  seems  they  kill  the  fish,  either  the 
smoke,  or  the  noise,  or  something  they  pour  into  the 
water. 

Mrs.  Dallas  was  there,  I  think.  Of  course,  I  sup- 
pose she  must  have  been;  and  there  was  a  woman  in 
yellow :  I  took  her  in  to  dinner,  and  I  remember  she 
loosened  my  clams  for  me  so  I  could  get  them.  But 
the  only  real  person  at  the  table  was  a  girl  across  in 
white,  a  sublimated  young  woman  who  was  as  bril- 
liant as  I  was  stupid,  who  never  by  any  chance  looked 
directly  at  me,  and  who  appeared  and  disappeared 
across  the  candles  and  orchids  in  a  sort  of  halo  of 
radiance. 

When  the  dinner  had  progressed  from  salmon  to 
roast,  and  the  conversation  had  done  the  same  thing — 
from  fish  to  scandal — the  yellow  gown  turned  to  me. 

"We  have  been  awfully  good,  haven't  we,  Mr. 
134 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL      135 

Blakeley  ?"  she  asked.  "Although  I  am  crazy  to  hear, 
I  have  not  said  'wreck'  once.  I'm  sure  you  must  feel 
like  the  survivor  of  Waterloo,  or  something  of  the 
sort." 

"If  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  the  wreck,"  I 
said,  glancing  across  the  table,  "I'm  sorry  to  be  dis- 
appointing, but  I  don't  remember  anything." 

"You  are  fortunate  to  be  able  to  forget  it."  It  was 
the  first  word  Miss  West  had  spoken  directly  to  me, 
and  it  went  to  my  head. 

"There  are  some  things  I  have  not  forgotten,"  I 
said,  over  the  candles.  "I  recall  coming  to  myself 
some  time  after,  and  that  a  girl,  a  beautiful  girl — " 

"Ah!"  said  the  lady  in  yellow,  leaning  forward 
breathlessly.  Miss  West  was  staring  at  me  coldly, 
but,  once  started,  I  had  to  stumble  on. 

"That  a  girl  was  trying  to  rouse  me,  and  that  she 
told  me  I  had  been  on  fire  twice  already."  A  shudder 
went  around  the  table. 

"But  surely  that  isn't  the  end  of  the  story,"  Mrs. 
Dallas  put  in  aggrievedly.  "Why,  that's  the  most 
tantalizing  thing  I  ever  heard." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  all,"  I  said.  "She  went  her  way 
and  I  went  mine.  If  she  recalls  me  at  all,  she  probably 
thinks  of  me  as  a  weak-kneed  individual  who  faints 
like  a  woman  when  everything  is  over." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  Mrs.  Dallas  asserted  tri- 
umphantly. "He  fainted,  did  you  hear?  when  every- 
thing was  over !  He  hasn't  begun  to  tell  it." 

I  would  have  given  a  lot  by  that  time  if  I  had  not 


136     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

mentioned  the  girl.  But  McKnight  took  it  up  there 
and  carried  it  on. 

"Blakeley  is  a  regular  geyser,"  he  said.  "He  never 
spouts  until  he  reaches  the  boiling  point.  And  by  that 
same  token,  although  he  hasn't  said  much  about  the 
Lady  of  the  Wreck,  I  think  he  is  crazy  about  her.  In 
fact,  I  am  sure  of  it.  He  thinks  he  has  locked  his 
secret  in  the  caves  of  his  soul,  but  I  call  you  to  wit- 
ness that  he  has  it  nailed  to  his  face.  Look  at  him!" 

I  squirmed  miserably  and  tried  to  avoid  the  startled 
eyes  of  the  girl  across  the  table.  I  wanted  to  choke 
McKnight  and  murder  the  rest  of  the  party. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  I  said  as  coolly  as  I  could.  "I  have 
my  fingers  crossed ;  you  are  five  against  one." 

"And  to  think  that  there  was  a  murder  on  that  very 
train,"  broke  in  the  lady  in  yellow.  "It  was  a  perfect 
crescendo  of  horrors,  wasn't  it?  And  what  became  of 
the  murdered  man,  Mr.  Blakeley?" 

McKnight  had  the  sense  to  jump  into  the  conversa- 
tion and  save  my  reply. 

"They  say  good  Pittsburgers  go  to  Atlantic  City 
when  they  die,"  he  said.  "So — we  are  reasonably  cer- 
tain the  gentleman  did  not  go  to  the  seashore." 

The  meal  was  over  at  last,  and  once  in  the  drawing- 
room  it  was  clear  we  hung  heavy  on  the  hostess' 
hands.  "It  is  so  hard  to  get  people  for  bridge  in  Sep- 
tember," she  wailed.  "There  is  absolutely  nobody  in 
town.  Six  is  a  dreadful  number." 

"It's  a  good  poker  number,"  her  husband  suggested. 

The  matter  settled  itself,  however.    I  was  hopeless, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL      137 

save  as  a  dummy;  Miss  West  said  it  was  too  hot  for 
cards,  and  went  out  on  a  balcony  that  overlooked  the 
Mall.  With  obvious  relief  Mrs.  Dallas  had  the  card- 
table  brought,  and — I  was  face  to  face  with  the  minute 
I  had  dreaded  and  hoped  for  for  a  week. 

Now  it  had  come,  it  was  more  difficult  than  I  had 
anticipated.  I  do  not  know  if  there  was  a  moon,  but 
there  was  the  urban  substitute  for  it — the  arc  light. 
It  threw  the  shadow  of  the  balcony  railing  in  long 
black  bars  against  her  white  gown,  and  as  it  swung 
sometimes  her  face  was  in  the  light.  I  drew  a  chair 
close  so  that  I  could  watch  her. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said,  when  she  made  no  effort 
at  speech,  "that  you  are  a  much  more  formidable  per- 
son to-night,  in  that  gown,  than  you  were  the  last  time 
I  saw  you  ?" 

The  light  swung  on  her  face ;  she  was  smiling  faintly. 

"The  hat  with  the  green  ribbons!"  she  said.  "I 
must  take  it  back ;  I  had  almost  forgotten." 

"I  have  not  forgotten — anything."  I  pulled  myself 
up  short.  This  was  hardly  loyalty  to  Richey.  His 
voice  came  through  the  window  just  then,  and  perhaps 
I  was  wrong,  but  I  thought  she  raised  her  head  to 
listen. 

"Look  at  this  hand,"  he  was  saying.  "Regular  pia- 
nola :  you  could  play  it  with  your  feet." 

"He's  a  dear,  isn't  he?"  Alison  said  unexpectedly. 
"No  matter  how  depressed  and  downhearted  I  am,  I 
always  cheer  up  when  I  see  Richey." 

"He's  more  than  that,"  I  returned  warmly.     "He 


138     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

is  the  most  honorable  fellow  I  know.  If  he  wasn't 
so  much  that  way,  he  would  have  a  career  before  him. 
He  wanted  to  put  on  the  doors  of  our  offices,  Blakeley 
and  McKnight,  P.  B.  H.,  which  is  Poor  But  Honest." 

From  my  comparative  poverty  to  the  wealth  of  the 
girl  beside  me  was  a  single  mental  leap.  From  that 
wealth  to  the  grandfather  who  was  responsible  for  it 
was  another. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  that  I  had  been  to  Pittsburg 
to  see  your  grandfather  when  I  met  you?"  I  said. 

"You?"    She  was  surprised. 

"Yes.  And  you  remember  the  alligator  bag  that 
I  told  you  was  exchanged  for  the  one  you  cut  off  my 
arm  ?"  She  nodded  expectantly.  "Well,  in  that  valise 
were  the  forged  Andy  Bronson  notes,  and  Mr.  Gil- 
more's  deposition  that  they  were  forged." 

She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  "In  that  bag!" 
she  cried.  "Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before? 
Oh,  it's  so  ridiculous,  so — so  hopeless.  Why,  I 
could—" 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  sat  down  again.  "I  do  not 
know  that  I  am  sorry,  after  all,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 
"Mr.  Bronson  was  a  friend  of  my  father's.  I — I  sup- 
pose it  was  a  bad  thing  for  you,  losing  the  papers  ?" 

"Well,  it  was  not  a  good  thing,"  I  conceded.  "While 
we  are  on  the  subject  of  losing  things,  do  you  remem- 
ber— do  you  know  that  I  still  have  your  gold  purse?" 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  shadow  of  a  column 
was  over  her  face,  but  I  guessed  that  she  was  staring1 
at  me. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GIRL      139 

"You  have  it!"     She  almost  whispered. 

"I  picked  it  up  in  the  street  car,"  I  said,  with  a 
cheerfulness  I  did  not  feel.  "It  looks  like  a  very  opu- 
lent little  purse." 

Why  didn't  she  speak  about  the  necklace?  For  just 
a  careless  word  to  make  me  sane  again ! 

"You!"  she  repeated,  horror-stricken.  And  then 
I  produced  the  purse  and  held  it  out  on  my  palm. 

"I  should  have  sent  it  to  you  before,  I  suppose,  but, 
as  you  know,  I  have  been  laid  up  since  the  wreck." 

We  both  saw  McKnight  at  the  same  moment.  He 
had  pulled  the  curtains  aside  and  was  standing  looking 
out  at  us.  The  tableau  of  give  and  take  was  unmis- 
takable ;  the  gold  purse,  her  outstretched  hand,  my  own 
attitude.  It  was  over  in  a  second;  then  he  came  out 
and  lounged  on  the  balcony  railing. 

"They're  mad  at  me  in  there,"  he  said  airily,  "so  I 
came  out.  I  suppose  the  reason  they  call  it  bridge  is 
because  so  many  people  get  cross  over  it." 

The  heat  broke  up  the  card  group  soon  after,  and 
they  all  came  out  for  the  night  breeze.  I  had  no  more 
words  alone  with  Alison. 

I  went  back  to  the  Incubator  for  the  night.  We  said 
almost  nothing  on  the  way  home;  there  was  a  con- 
straint between  us  for  the  first  time  that  I  could  re- 
member. It  was  too  early  for  bed,  and  so  we  smoked 
in  the  living-room  and  tried  to  talk  of  trivial  things. 
After  a  time  even  those  failed,  and  we  sat  silent.  It 
was  McKnight  who  finally  broached  the  subject. 

"And  so  she  wasn't  at  Seal  Harbor  at  all." 


140     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"No." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  was,  Lollie?" 

"Somewhere  near  Cresson." 

"And  that  was  the  purse — her  purse — with  the 
broken  necklace  in  it?" 

"Yes,  it  was.  You  understand,  don't  you,  Rich, 
that,  having  given  her  my  word,  I  couldn't  tell  you?" 

"I  understand  a  lot  of  things,"  he  said,  without  bit- 
terness. 

We  sat  for  some  time  and  smoked.  Then  Richey 
got  up  and  stretched  himself.  "I'm  off  to  bed,  old 
man,"  he  said.  "Need  any  help  with  that  game  arm 
of  yours  ?" 

"No,  thanks,"  I  returned. 

I  heard  him  go  into  his  room  and  lock  the  door.  It 
was  a  bad  hour  for  me.  The  first  shadow  between 
us,  and  the  shadow  of  a  girl  at  that. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN 

MCKNIGHT  is  always  a  sympathizer  with  the 
early  worm.  It  was  late  when  he  appeared. 
Perhaps,  like  myself,  he  had  not  slept  well.  But  he 
was  apparently  cheerful  enough,  and  he  made  a  better 
breakfast  than  I  did.  It  was  one  o'clock  before  we  got 
to  Baltimore.  After  a  half  hour's  wait  we  took  a  local 

for  M ,  the  station  near  which  the  cinematograph 

picture  had  been  taken. 

We  passed  the  scene  of  the  wreck,  McKnight  with 
curiosity,  I  with  a  sickening  sense  of  horror.  Back 
in  the  fields  was  the  little  farm-house  where  Alison 
West  and  I  had  intended  getting  coffee,  and  winding 
away  from  the  track,  maple  trees  shading  it  on  each 
side,  was  the  lane  where  we  had  stopped  to  rest,  and 
where  I  had — it  seemed  presumption  beyond  belief 
now — where  I  had  tried  to  comfort  her  by  patting  her 
hand. 

We  got  out  at  M ,  a  small  place  with  two  or 

three  houses  and  a  general  store.  The  station  was  a 
one-roomed  affair,  with  a  railed-off  place  at  the  end, 
where  a  scale,  a  telegraph  instrument  and  a  chair  con- 
stituted the  entire  furnishing. 

The  station  agent  was  a  young  man  with  a  shrewd 
face.    He  stopped  hammering  a  piece  of  wood  over  a 
hole  in  the  floor  to  ask  where  we  wanted  to  go. 
141 


142     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"We're  not  going,"  said  McKnight,  "we're  coming. 
Have  a  cigar?" 

The  agent  took  it  with  an  inquiring  glance,  first  at 
it  and  then  at  us. 

"We  want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,"  began  Mc- 
Knight, perching  himself  on  the  railing  and  kicking 
the  chair  forward  for  me.  "Or,  rather,  this  gentleman 
does." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  agent,  glancing  through 
the  window.  "There's  a  hen  in  that  crate  choking 
herself  to  death." 

He  was  back  in  a  minute,  and  took  up  his  position 
near  a  sawdust-filled  box  that  did  duty  as  a  cuspidor. 

"Now  fire  away,"  he  said. 

"In  the  first  place,"  I  began,  "do  you  remember  the 
day  the  Washington  Flier  was  wrecked  below  here?" 

"Do  I!"  he  said.  "Did  Jonah  remember  the 
whale?" 

"Were  you  on  the  platform  here  when  the  first  sec- 
tion passed  ?" 

"I  was." 

"Do  you  recall  seeing  a  man  hanging  to  the  plat- 
form of  the  last  car?" 

"There  was  no  one  hanging  there  when  she  passed 
here,"  he  said  with  conviction.  "I  watched  her  out 
of  sight." 

"Did  you  see  anything  that  morning  of  a  man  about 
my  size,  carrying  a  small  grip,  and  wearing  dark 
clothes  and  a  derby  hat?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

McKnight  was  trying  to  look  unconcerned,  but  I 


AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN     143 

was  frankly  anxious.  It  was  clear  that  the  man  had 
jumped  somewhere  in  the  mile  of  track  just  beyond. 

"Well,  yes,  I  did."  The  agent  cleared  his  throat. 
"When  the  smash  came  the  operator  at  MX  sent  word 
along  the  wire,  both  ways.  I  got  it  here,  and  I  was 
pretty  near  crazy,  though  I  knew  it  wasn't  any  fault 
of  mine. 

"I  was  standing  on  the  track  looking  down,  for  I 
couldn't  leave  the  office,  when  a  young  fellow  with 
light  hair  limped  up  to  me  and  asked  me  what  that 
smoke  was  over  there. 

"That's  what's  left  of  the  Washington  Flier,'  I 
said,  'and  I  guess  there's  souls  going  up  in  that  smoke.' 

"  'Do  you  mean  the  first  section  ?'  he  said,  getting 
kind  of  greenish-yellow. 

"That's  what  I  mean,'  I  said;  'split  to  kindling 
wood  because  Rafferty,  on  the  second  section,  didn't 
want  to  be  late.' 

"He  put  his  hand  out  in  front  of  him,  and  the 
satchel  fell  with  a  bang. 

"  'My  God !'  he  said,  and  dropped  right  on  the  track 
in  a  heap. 

"I  got  him  into  the  station  and  he  came  around, 
but  he  kept  on  groaning  something  awful.  He'd 
sprained  his  ankle,  and  when  he  got  a  little  better  I 
drove  him  over  in  Carter's  milk  wagon  to  the  Carter 
place,  and  I  reckon  he  stayed  there  a  spell." 

"That's  all,  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"That's  all — or,  no,  there's  something  else.  About 
noon  that  day  one  of  the  Carter  twins  came  down  with 


144.     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

a  note  from  him  asking  me  to  send  a  long-distance 
message  to  some  one  in  Washington." 

"To  whom?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

"I  reckon  I've  forgot  the  name,  but  the  message 
was  that  this  fellow — Sullivan  was  his  name — was  at 

M ,  and  if  the  man  had  escaped  from  the  wreck 

would  he  come  to  see  him." 

"He  wouldn't  have  sent  that  message  to  me,"  I  said 
to  McKnight,  rather  crestfallen.  "He'd  have  every 
object  in  keeping  out  of  my  way." 

"There  might  be  reasons,"  McKnight  observed 
judicially.  "He  might  not  have  found  the  papers 
then." 

"Was  the  name  Blakeley?"  I  asked. 

"It  might  have  been — I  can't  say.  But  the  man 
wasn't  there,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  noise.  I  couldn't 
hear  well.  Then  in  half  an  hour  down  came  the  other 
twin  to  say  the  gentleman  was  taking  on  awful  and 
didn't  want  the  message  sent." 

"He's  gone,  of  course?" 

"Yes.  Limped  down  here  in  about  three  days  and 
took  the  noon  train  for  the  city." 

It  seemed  a  certainty  now  that  our  man,  having 
hurt  himself  somewhat  in  his  jump,  had  stayed  quietly 
in  the  farm-house  until  he  was  able  to  travel.  But, 
to  be  positive,  we  decided  to  visit  the  Carter  place. 

I  gave  the  station  agent  a  five-dollar  bill,  which  he 
rolled  up  with  a  couple  of  others  and  stuck  in  his 
pocket.  I  turned  as  we  got  to  a  bend  in  the  road,  and 
he  was  looking  curiously  after  us. 


AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN     145 

It  was  not  until  we  had  climbed  the  hill  and  turned 
onto  the  road  to  the  Carter  place  that  I  realized  where 
we  were  going.  Although  we  approached  it  from 
another  direction,  I  knew  the  farm-house  at  once.  It 
was  the  one  where  Alison  West  and  I  had  breakfasted 
nine  days  before.  With  the  new  restraint  between  us, 
I  did  not  tell  McKnight.  I  wondered  afterward  if 
he  had  suspected  it.  I  saw  him  looking  hard  at  the 
gate-post  which  had  figured  in  one  of  our  mysteries, 
but  he  asked  no  questions.  Afterward  he  grew  almost 
taciturn,  for  him,  and  let  me  do  most  of  the  talking. 

We  opened  the  front  gate  of  the  Carter  place  and 
went  slowly  up  the  walk.  Two  ragged  youngsters, 
alike  even  to  freckles  and  squints,  were  playing  in  the 
yard. 

"Is  your  mother  around  ?"  I  asked. 

"In  the  front  room.  Walk  in,"  they  answered  in 
identical  tones. 

As  we  got  to  the  porch  we  heard  voices,  and  stopped. 
I  knocked,  but  the  people  within,  engaged  in  animated, 
rather  one-sided  conversation,  did  not  answer. 

"  'In  the  front  room.  Walk  in,' "  quoted  Mc- 
Knight, and  did  so. 

In  the  stuffy  farm  parlor  two  people  were  sitting. 
One,  a  pleasant- faced  woman  with  a  checked  apron, 
rose,  somewhat  embarrassed,  to  meet  us.  She  did  not 
know  me,  and  I  was  thankful.  But  our  attention  was 
riveted  on  a  little  man  who  was  sitting  before  a  table, 
writing  busily.  It  was  Hotchkiss ! 


146     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

He  got  up  when  he  saw  us,  and  had  the  grace  to 
look  uncomfortable. 

"Such  an  interesting  case,"  he  said  nervously,  "I 
took  the  liberty — " 

"Look  here,"  said  McKnight  suddenly,  "did  you 
make  any  inquiries  at  the  station?" 

"A  few,"  he  confessed.  "I  went  to  the  theater  last 
night — I  felt  the  need  of  a  little  relaxation — and  the 
sight  of  a  picture  there,  a  cinematograph  affair,  started 
a  new  line  of  thought.  Probably  the  same  clue 
brought  you  gentlemen.  I  learned  a  good  bit  from 
the  station  agent." 

"The  son-of-a-gun,"  said  McKnight.  "And  you 
paid  him,  I  suppose?" 

"I  gave  him  five  dollars,"  was  the  apologetic  answer. 

Mrs.  Carter,  hearing  sounds  of  strife  in  the  yard, 
went  out,  and  Hotchkiss  folded  up  his  papers. 

"I  think  the  identity  of  the  man  is  established,"  he 
said.  "What  number  of  hat  do  you  wear,  Mr. 
Blakeley?" 

"Seven  and  a  quarter,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  it's  only  piling  up  evidence,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. "On  the  night  of  the  murder  you  wore  light 
gray  silk  underclothing,  with  the  second  button  of  the 
shirt  missing.  Your  hat  had  *L.  B/  in  gilt  letters 
inside,  and  there  was  a  very  minute  hole  in  the  toe  of 
one  black  sock." 

"Hush,"  McKnight  protested.  "If  word  gets  to 
Mrs.  Klopton  that  Mr.  Blakeley  was  wrecked,  or 
robbed,  or  whatever  it  was,  with  a  button  missing  and 


AT  THE  FARM-HOUSE  AGAIN     147 

a  hole  in  one  sock,  she'll  retire  to  the  Old  Ladies* 
Home.     I've  heard  her  threaten  it." 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  was  without  a  sense  of  humor.  He 
regarded  McKnight  gravely  and  went  on : 

"I've  been  up  in  the  room  where  the  man  lay  while 
he  was  unable  to  get  away,  and  there  is  nothing  there. 
But  I  found  what  may  be  a  possible  clue  in  the  dust 
heap. 

"Mrs.  Carter  tells  me  that  in  unpacking  his  grip 
the  other  day  she  took  out  of  the  coat  of  the  pajamas 
some  pieces  of  a  telegram.  As  I  figure  it,  the  pajamas 
were  his  own.  He  probably  had  them  on  when  he 
effected  the  exchange." 

I  nodded  assent.  All  I  had  retained  of  my  own 
clothing  was  the  suit  of  pajamas  I  was  wearing  and 
my  bath-robe. 

"Therefore  the  telegram  was  his,  not  yours.  I 
have  pieces  here,  but  some  are  missing.  I  am  not  dis- 
couraged, however." 

He  spread  out  some  bits  of  yellow  paper,  and  we 
bent  over  them  curiously.    It  was  something  like  this : 
Man  with  p —    Get — 
Br— 

We  spelled  it  out  slowly. 

"Now,"  Hotchkiss  announced,  "I  make  it  something 
like  this:  The  'p— '  is  one  of  two  things,  pistol — 
you  remember  the  little  pearl-handled  affair  belonging 
to  the  murdered  man — or  it  is  pocket-book.  I  am 
inclined  to  the  latter  view,  as  the  pocket-book  had  been 
disturbed  and  the  pistol  had  not." 


148     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  took  the  piece  of  paper  from  the  table  and  scrawled 
four  words  on  it. 

"Now,"  I  said,  rearranging  them,  "it  happens,  Mr. 
Hotchkiss,  that  I  found  one  of  these  pieces  of  the  tele- 
gram on  the  train.  I  thought  it  had  been  dropped  by 
some  one  else,  you  see,  but  that's  immaterial. 
Arranged  this  way  it  almost  makes  sense.  Fill  out 
that  'p — '  with  the  rest  of  the  word,  as  I  imagine  it, 
and  it  makes  'papers,'  and  add  this  scrap  and  you 
have: 

"  'Man  with  papers  (in)  lower  ten,  car  seven.  Get 
(them).'" 

McKnight  slapped  Hotchkiss  on  the  back. 

"You're  a  trump,"  he  said.  "Br —  is  Bronson,  of 
course.  It's  almost  too  easy.  You  see,  Mr.  Blakeley 
here  engaged  lower  ten,  but  found  it  occupied  by  the 
man  who  was  later  murdered  there.  The  man  who 
did  the  thing  was  a  friend  of  Branson's,  evidently,  and 
in  trying  to  get  the  papers  we  have  the  motive  for 
the  crime." 

"There  are  still  some  things  to  be  explained."  Mr. 
Hotchkiss  wiped  his  glasses  and  put  them  on.  "For 
one  thing,  Mr.  Blakeley,  I  am  puzzled  by  that  bit  of 
chain." 

I  did  not  glance  at  McKnight.  I  felt  that  the  handl 
with  which  I  was  gathering  up  the  bits  of  torn  paper 
were  shaking.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  astute  little 
man  was  going  to  drag  in  the  girl  in  spite  of  me. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  NEW  WORLD 

HOTCHKISS  jotted  down  the  bits  of  telegram 
and  rose. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we've  done  something.  We've 
found  where  the  murderer  left  the  train,  we  know  what 
day  he  went  to  Baltimore,  and,  most  important  of  all, 
we  have  a  motive  for  the  crime." 

"It  seems  the  irony  of  fate,"  said  McKnight,  get- 
ting up,  "that  a  man  should  kill  another  man  for 
certain  papers  he  is  supposed  to  be  carrying,  find  he 
hasn't  got  them  after  all,  decide  to  throw  suspicion  on 
another  man  by  changing  berths  and  getting  out,  bag 
and  baggage,  and  then,  by  the  merest  fluke  of  chance, 
take  with  him,  in  the  valise  he  changed  for  his  own, 
the  very  notes  he  was  after.  It  was  a  bit  of  luck  for 
him." 

"Then  why,"  put  in  Hotchkiss  doubtfully,  "why  did 
he  collapse  when  he  heard  of  the  wreck?  And  what 
about  the  telephone  message  the  station  agent  sent? 
You  remember  they  tried  to  countermand  it,  and  with 
some  excitement." 

"We  will  ask  him  those  questions  when  we  get  him," 
McKnight  said.  We  were  on  the  unrailed  front  porch 
by  that  time,  and  Hotchkiss  had  put  away  his  note- 
149 


150     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

book.  The  mother  of  the  twins  followed  us  to  the 
steps. 

"Dear  me,"  she  exclaimed  volubly,  "and  to  think 
I  was  forgetting  to  tell  you !  I  put  the  young  man 
to  bed  with  a  spice  poultice  on  his  ankle :  my  mother 
always  was  a  firm  believer  in  spice  poultices.  It's 
wonderful  what  they  will  do  in  croup!  And  then  I 
took  the  children  and  went  down  to  see  the  wreck.  It 
was  Sunday,  and  the  mister  had  gone  to  church; 
hasn't  missed  a  day  since  he  took  the  pledge  nine  years 
ago.  And  on  the  way  I  met  two  people,  a  man  and  a 
woman.  They  looked  half  dead,  so  I  sent  them  right 
here  for  breakfast  and  some  soap  and  water.  I  always 
say  soap  is  better  than  liquor  after  a  shock." 

Hotchkiss  was  listening  absently:  McKnight  was 
whistling  under  his  breath,  staring  down  across  the 
field  to  where  a  break  in  the  woods  showed  a  half 
dozen  telegraph  poles,  the  line  of  the  railroad. 

"It  must  have  been  twelve  o'clock  when  we  got 
back ;  I  wanted  the  children  to  see  everything,  because 
it  isn't  likely  they'll  ever  see  another  wreck  like  that. 
Rows  of — " 

"About  twelve  o'clock,"  I  broke  in,  "and  what 
then?" 

"The  young  man  up-stairs  was  awake,"  she  went 
on,  "and  hammering  at  his  door  like  all  possessed. 
And  it  was  locked  on  the  outside!"  She  paused  to 
enjoy  her  sensation. 

"I  would  like  to  see  that  lock,"  Hotchkiss  said 
promptly,  but  for  some  reason  the  woman  demurred. 


A  NEW  WORLD 151 

"I  will  bring  the  key  down,"  she  said  and  disappeared. 
When  she  returned  she  held  out  an  ordinary  door  key 
of  the  cheapest  variety. 

"We  had  to  break  the  lock,"  she  volunteered,  "and 
the  key  didn't  turn  up  for  two  days.  Then  one  of 
the  twins  found  the  turkey  gobbler  trying  to  swallow 
it.  It  has  been  washed  since,"  she  hastened  to  assure 
Hotchkiss,  who  showed  an  inclination  to  drop  it. 

"You  don't  think  he  locked  the  door  himself  and 
threw  the  key  out  of  the  window?"  the  little  man 
asked. 

"The  windows  are  covered  with  mosquito  netting, 
nailed  on.  The  mister  blamed  it  on  the  children,  and 
it  might  have  been  Obadiah.  He's  the  quiet  kind, 
and  you  never  know  what  he's  about." 

"He's  about  to  strangle,  isn't  he,"  McKnight  re- 
marked lazily,  "or  is  that  Obadiah?" 

Mrs.  Carter  picked  the  boy  up  and  inverted  him, 
talking  amiably  all  the  time.  "He's  always  doing  it," 
she  said,  giving  him  a  shake.  "Whenever  we  miss 
anything  we  look  to  see  if  Obadiah's  black  in  the  face." 
She  gave  him  another  shake,  and  the  quarter  I  had 
given  him  shot  out  as  if  blown  from  a  gun.  Then 
we  prepared  to  go  back  to  the  station. 

From  where  I  stood  I  could  look  into  the  cheery 
farm  kitchen,  where  Alison  West  and  I  had  eaten  our 
al  fresco  breakfast.  I  looked  at  the  table  with  mixed 
emotions,  and  then,  gradually,  the  meaning  of  some- 
thing on  it  penetrated  my  mind.  Still  in  its  papers, 
evidently  just  opened,  was  a  hat  box,  and  protruding 


152      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

over  the  edge  of  the  box  was  a  streamer  of  vivid  green 
ribbon. 

On  the  plea  that  I  wished  to  ask  Mrs.  Carter  a  few 
more  questions,  I  let  the  others  go  on.  I  watched 
them  down  the  flagstone  walk;  saw  McKnight  stop 
and  examine  the  gate-posts  and  saw,  too,  the  quick 
glance  he  threw  back  at  the  house.  Then  I  turned  to 
Mrs.  Carter. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  the  young  lady  up-stairs," 
I  said. 

She  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  quick  gesture  of 
surrender.  "I've  done  all  I  could,"  she  exclaimed. 
"She  won't  like  it  very  well,  but — she's  in  the  room 
over  the  parlor." 

I  went  eagerly  up  the  ladder-like  stairs,  to  the  rag- 
carpeted  hall.  Two  doors  were  open,  showing  in- 
teriors of  four  poster  beds  and  high  bureaus.  The 
door  of  the  room  over  the  parlor  was  almost  closed.  I 
hesitated  in  the  hallway:  after  all,  what  right  had  I 
to  intrude  on  her?  But  she  settled  my  difficulty  by 
throwing  open  the  door  and  facing  me. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  West,"  I  stammered. 
"It  has  just  occurred  to  me  that  I  am  unpardonably 
rude.  I  saw  the  hat  down-stairs  and  I — I  guessed — " 

"The  bajil"  she  said.  "I  might  have  known.  Does 
Richey  know  I  am  here?" 

"I  don't  think  so."  I  turned  to  go  down  the  stairs 
again.  Then  I  halted.  "The  fact  is,"  I  said,  in  an 
attempt  at  justification,  "I'm  in  rather  a  mess  these 
days,  and  I'm  apt  to  do  irresponsible  things.  It  is  not 


A  NEW  WORLD 153 

impossible  that  I  shall  be  arrested,  in  a  day  or  so,  for 
the  murder  of  Simon  Harrington." 

She  drew  her  breath  in  sharply.  "Murder!"  she 
echoed.  "Then  they  have  found  you  after  all !" 

"I  don't  regard  it  as  anything  more  than — er — in- 
convenient," I  lied.  "They  can't  convict  me,  you 
know.  Almost  all  the  witnesses  are  dead." 

She  was  not  deceived  for  a  moment.  She  came  over 
to  me  and  stood,  both  hands  on  the  rail  of  the  stair. 
"I  know  just  how  grave  it  is,"  she  said  quietly.  "My 
grandfather  will  not  leave  one  stone  unturned,  and  he 
can  be  terrible — terrible.  But" — she  looked  directly 
into  my  eyes  as  I  stood  below  her  on  the  stairs — "the 
time  may  come — soon — when  I  can  help  you.  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  not  want  to;  I'm  a  dreadful  coward,  Mr. 
Blakeley.  But— I  will."  She  tried  to  smile. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you,"  I  said  unstead- 
ily. "Let  us  make  it  a  bargain :  each  help  the  other!" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  with  a  sad  little  smile.  "I 
am  only  as  unhappy  as  I  deserve  to  be,"  she  said.  And 
when  I  protested  and  took  a  step  toward  her  she  re- 
treated, with  her  hands  out  before  her. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  all  the  questions  you  are 
thinking?"  she  demanded,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 
"Oh,  I  know  them.  Or  are  you  afraid  to  ask?" 

I  looked  at  her,  at  the  lines  around  her  eyes,  at  the 
drawn  look  about  her  mouth.  Then  I  held  out  my 
hand.  "Afraid!"  I  said,  as  she  gave  me  hers.  "There 
is  nothing  in  God's  green  earth  I  am  afraid  of,  save 
of  trouble  for  you.  To  ask  questions  would  be  to 


154     THE  MAN  IN'  LOWER  TEN 

imply  a  lack  of  faith.  I  ask  you  nothing.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  you  will  come  to  me  yourself  and  let  me  help 
you." 

The  next  moment  I  was  out  in  the  golden  sunshine : 
the  birds  were  singing  carols  of  joy:  I  walked  dizzily 
through  rainbow-colored  clouds,  past  the  twins, 
cherubs  now,  swinging  on  the  gate.  It  was  a  new 
world  into  which  I  stepped  from  the  Carter  farm- 
house that  morning,  for — I  had  kissed  her! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT 

MCKNIGHT    and    Hotchkiss    were    sauntering 
slowly  down  the  road  as  I  caught  up  with 
them.     As  usual,  the  little  man  was  busy  with  some 
abstruse  mental  problem. 

"The  idea  is  this,"  he  was  saying,  his  brows  knitted 
in  thought,  "if  a  left-handed  man,  standing  in  the 
position  of  the  man  in  the  picture,  should  jump  from 
a  car,  would  he  be  likely  to  sprain  his  right  ankle? 
When  a  right-handed  man  prepares  for  a  leap  of  that 
kind,  my  theory  is  that  he  would  hold  on  with  his 
right  hand,  and  alight  at  the  proper  time,  on  his  right 
foot.  Of  course — " 

"I  imagine,  although  I  don't  know,"  interrupted 
McKnight,  "that  a  man  either  ambidextrous  or  one- 
armed,  jumping  from  the  Washington  Flier,  would 
be  more  likely  to  land  on  his  head." 

"Anyhow,"  I  interposed,  "what  difference  does  it 
make  whether  Sullivan  used  one  hand  or  the  other? 
One  pair  of  handcuffs  will  put  both  hands  out  of  com- 
mission." 

As  usual  when  one  of  his  pet  theories  was  attacked, 
Hotchkiss  looked  aggrieved. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  expostulated,  "don't  you  under4 
stand  what  bearing  this  ha*  on  the  case?     How  was 
the  murdered  man  lying  when  he  was  found?" 
i55 


156     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"On  his  back,"  I  said  promptly,  "head  toward  the 
engine." 

"Very  well,"  he  retorted,  "and  what  then?  Your 
heart  lies  under  your  fifth  intercostal  space,  and  to 
reach  it  a  right-handed  blow  would  have  struck  either 
down  or  directly  in. 

"But,  gentleman,  the  point  of  entrance  for  the 
stiletto  was  below  the  heart,  striking  up!  As  Har- 
rington lay  with  his  head  toward  the  engine,  a  person 
in  the  aisle  must  have  used  the  left  hand." 

McKnight's  eyes  sought  mine  and  he  winked  at  me 
solemnly  as  I  unostentatiously  transferred  the  hat  I 
was  carrying  to  my  right  hand.  Long  training  has 
largely  counterbalanced  heredity  in  my  case,  but  I  still 
pitch  ball,  play  tennis  and  carve  with  my  left  hand. 
But  Hotchkiss  was  too  busy  with  his  theories  to  notice 
me. 

We  were  only  just  in  time  for  our  train  back  to 
Baltimore,  but  McKnight  took  advantage  of  a  second's 
delay  to  shake  the  station  agent  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"I  want  to  express  my  admiration  for  you,"  he  said 
beamingly.  "Ability  of  your  order  is  thrown  away 
here.  You  should  have  been  a  city  policeman,  my 
friend." 

The  agent  looked  a  trifle  uncertain. 

"The  young  lady  was  the  one  who  told  me  to  keep 
still,"  he  said. 

McKnight  glanced  at  me,  gave  the  agent's  hand  a 
final  shake,  and  climbed  on  board.  But  I  knew  per- 
fectly that  he  had  guessed  the  reason  for  my  delay. 


AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT          157 

He  was  very  silent  on  the  way  home.  Hotchkiss, 
too,  had  little  to  say.  He  was  reading  over  his  notes 
intently,  stopping  now  and  then  to  make  a  penciled 
addition.  Just  before  we  left  the  train  Richey  turned 
to  me.  "I  suppose  it  was  the  key  to  the  door  that  she 
tied  to  the  gate?" 

"Probably.     I  did  not  ask  her." 

"Curious,  her  locking  that  fellow  in,"  he  reflected. 

"You  may  depend  on  it,  there  was  a  good  reason 
for  it  all.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  suspicious 
of  motives,  Rich,"  I  said  warmly. 

"Only  yesterday  you  were  the  suspicious  one,"  he 
retorted,  and  we  lapsed  into  strained  silence. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  to  Washington.  One  of 
Mrs.  Klopton's  small  tyrannies  was  exacting  punc- 
tuality at  meals,  and,  like  several  other  things,  I  re- 
spected it.  There  are  always  some  concessions  that 
should  be  made  in  return  for  faithful  service. 

So,  as  my  dinner  hour  of  seven  was  long  past,  Mc- 
Knight  and  I  went  to  a  little  restaurant  down  town 
where  they  have  a  very  decent  way  of  fixing  chicken 
a  la  King.  Hotchkiss  had  departed,  economically 
bent,  for  a  small  hotel  where  he  lived  on  the  American 
plan. 

"I  want  to  think  some  things  over,"  he  said  in  re- 
sponse to  my  invitation  to  dinner,  "and,  anyhow, 
there's  no  use  dining  out  when  I  pay  the  same,  dinner 
or  no  dinner,  where  I  am  stopping." 

The  day  had  been  hot,  and  the  first  floor  dining- 
room  was  sultry  in  spite  of  the  palms  and  fans  which 


158      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

attempted  to  simulate  the  verdure  and  breezes  of  the 
country. 

It  was  crowded,  too,  with  a  typical  summer  night 
crowd,  and,  after  sitting  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  swel- 
tering corner,  we  got  up  and  went  to  the  Smaller 
dining-room  up-stairs.  Here  it  was  not  so  warm,  and 
we  settled  ourselves  comfortably  by  a  window. 

Over  in  a  corner  half  a  dozen  boys  on  their  way 
back  to  school  were  ragging  a  perspiring  waiter,  a 
proceeding  so  exactly  to  McKnight's  taste  that  he  in- 
sisted on  going  over  to  join  them.  But  their  table 
was  full,  and  somehow  that  kind  of  fun  had  lost  its 
point  for  me. 

Not  far  from  us  a  very  stout,  middle-aged  man, 
apoplectic  with  the  heat,  was  elephantinely  jolly  for 
the  benefit  of  a  bored-looking  girl  across  the  table  from 
him,  and  at  the  next  table  a  newspaper  woman  ate 
alone,  the  last  edition  propped  against  the  water-bottle 
before  her,  her  hat,  for  coolness,  on  the  corner  of  the 
table.  It  was  a  motley  Bohemian  crowd. 

I  looked  over  the  room  casually,  while  McKnight 
ordered  the  meal.  Then  my  attention  was  attracted 
to  the  table  next  to  ours.  Two  people  were  sitting 
there,  so  deep  in  conversation  that  they  did  not  notice 
us.  The  woman's  face  was  hidden  under  her  hat,  as 
she  traced  the  pattern  of  the  cloth  mechanically  with 
her  fork.  But  the  man's  features  stood  out  clear  in 
the  light  of  the  candles  on  the  table.  It  was  Bronson ! 

"He  shows  the  strain,  doesn't  he?"  McKnight  said, 


AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT          159 

holding  up  the  wine  list  as  if  he  read  from  it.  "Who's 
the  woman?" 

"Search  me,"  I  replied,  in  the  same  way. 

When  the  chicken  came,  I  still  found  myself  gazing 
now  and  then  at  the  abstracted  couple  near  me.  Evi- 
^ently  the  subject  of  conversation  was  unpleasant. 
Bronson  was  eating  little,  the  woman  not  at  all. 
Finally  he  got  up,  pushed  his  chair  back  noisily,  thrust 
a  bill  at  the  waiter  and  stalked  out. 

The  woman  sat  still  for  a  moment;  then,  with  an 
apparent  resolution  to  make  the  best  of  it,  she  began 
slowly  to  eat  the  meal  before  her. 

But  the  quarrel  had  taken  away  her  appetite,  for 
the  mixture  in  our  chafing-dish  was  hardly  ready  to 
serve  before  she  pushed  her  chair  back  a  little  and 
looked  around  the  room. 

I  caught  my  first  ^glimpse  of  her  face  then,  and  I 
•confess  it  startled  me.  It  was  the  tall,  stately  woman 
of  the  Ontario,  the  woman  I  had  last  seen  cowering 
beside  the  road,  rolling  pebbles  in  her  hand,  blood 
streaming  from  a  cut  over  her  eye.  I  could  see  the 
scar  now,  a  little  affair,  about  an  inch  long,  gleaming 
red  through  its  layers  of  powder. 

And  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  she  turned  and  looked 
directly  at  me.  After  a  minute's  uncertainty,  she 
bowed,  letting  her  eyes  rest  on  mine  with  a  calmly  inso- 
lent stare.  She  glanced  at  McKnight  for  a  moment, 
then  back  to  me.  When  she  looked  away  again  I 
breathed  easier. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  McKnight  under  his  breath. 


160     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Ontario."  I  formed  it  with  my  lips  rather  than 
said  it.  McKnight's  eyebrows  went  up  and  he  looked 
with  increased  interest  at  the  black-gowned  figure. 

I  ate  little  after  that.  The  situation  was  rather  bad 
for  me,  I  began  to  see.  Here  was  a  woman  who  could, 
if  she  wished,  and  had  any  motive  for  so  doing,  put 
me  in  jail  under  a  capital  charge.  A  word  from  her 
to  the  police,  and  polite  surveillance  would  become  ac- 
tive interference. 

Then,  too,  she  could  say  that  she  had  seen  me,  just 
after  the  wreck,  with  a  young  woman  from  the  mur- 
dered man's  car,  and  thus  probably  bring  Alison  West 
into  the  case. 

It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  I  ate  little.  The 
woman  across  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go.  She  loitered 
over  a  demi-tasse,  and  that  finished,  sat  with  her  elbow 
on  the  table,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  looking  darkly  at 
the  changing  groups  in  the  room. 

The  fun  at  the  table  where  the  college  boys  sat  began 
to  grow  a  little  noisy;  the  fat  man,  now  a  purplish 
shade,  ambled  away  behind  his  slim  companion;  the 
newspaper  woman  pinned  on  her  business-like  hat  and 
stalked  out.  Still  the  woman  at  the  next  table  waited. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  meal  was  over.  We  got 
our  hats  and  were  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  a 
waiter  touched  me  on  the  arm. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  the  lady  at 
the  table  near  the  window,  the  lady  in  black,  sir,  would 
like  to  speak  to  you." 

I  looked  down  between  the  rows  of  tables  to  where 


AT  THE  TABLE  NEXT          161 

the  woman  sat  alone,  her  chin  still  resting  on  her  hand, 
her  black  eyes  still  insolently  staring,  this  time  at  me. 

"I'll  have  to  go,"  I  said  to  McKnight  hurriedly. 
"She  knows  all  about  that  affair  and  she'd  be  a  bad 
enemy." 

"I  don't  like  her  lamps,"  McKnight  observed,  after 
h  glance  at  her.  "Better  jolly  her  a  little.  Go«d-by." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  NOTES  AND  A  BARGAIN 

I  WENT  back  slowly  to  where  the  woman  sat  alone. 
She  smiled  rather  oddly  as  I  drew  near,  and 
pointed  to  the  chair  Bronson  had  vacated. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Blakeley,"  she  said,  "I  am  going 
to  take  a  few  minutes  of  your  valuable  time." 

"Certainly."  I  sat  down  opposite  her  and  glanced 
at  a  cuckoo  clock  on  the  wall.  "I  am  sorry,  but  I  have 
only  a  few  minutes.  If  you — "  She  laughed  a  little, 
not  very  pleasantly,  and  opening  a  small  black  fan  cov- 
ered with  spangles,  waved  it  slowly. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  said,  "I  think  we  are  about  to 
make  a  bargain." 

"A  bargain?"  I  asked  incredulously.  "You  have 
a  second  advantage  of  me.  You  know  my  name" — I 
paused  suggestively  and  she  took  the  cue. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Conway,"  she  said,  and  flicked  a  crumb 
off  the  table  with  an  over-manicured  finger. 

The  name  was  scarcely  a  surprise.  I  had  already 
surmised  that  this  might  be  the  woman  whom  rumor 
credited  as  being  Bronson' s  common-law  wife.  Rumor, 
I  remembered,  had  said  other  things  even  less  pleasant, 
things  which  had  been  brought  out  at  Bronson's  arrest 
for  forgery. 

"We  met  last  under  less  fortunate  circumstances," 
162 


THE  NOTES  AND  A  BARGAIN     163 

she  was  saying.  "I  have  been  fit  for  nothing  since  that 
terrible  day.  And  you — you  had  a  broken  arm,  I 
think." 

"I  still  have  it,"  I  said,  with  a  lame  attempt  at  jocu- 
larity ;  "but  to  have  escaped  at  all  was  a  miracle.  We 
have  much,  indeed,  to  be  thankful  for." 

"I  suppose  we  have,"  she  said  carelessly,  "although 
sometimes  I  doubt  it."  She  was  looking  somberly  to- 
ward the  door  through  which  her  late  companion  had 
made  his  exit. 

"You  sent  for  me — "  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  you."  She  roused  herself  and  sat 
erect.  "Now,  Mr.  Blakeley,  have  you  found  those 
papers  ?" 

"The  papers  ?  What  papers  ?"  I  parried.  I  needed 
time  to  think. 

"Mr.  Blakeley,"  she  said  quietly,  "I  think  we  can 
lay  aside  all  subterfuge.  In  the  first  place  let  me  re- 
fresh your  mind  about  a  few  things.  The  Pittsburg 
police  are  looking  for  the  survivors  of  the  car  Ontario; 
there  are  three  that  I  know  of — yourself,  the  young 
woman  with  whom  you  left  the  scene  of  the  wreck*, 
and  myself.  The  wreck,  you  will  admit,  was  a  for- 
tunate one  for  you." 

I  nodded  without  speaking. 

"At  the  time  of  the  collision  you  were  in  rather  a 
hole,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  me  with  a  disagreeable 
smile.  "You  were,  if  I  remember,  accused  of  a  rather 
atrocious  crime.  There  was  a  lot  of  corroborative 
evidence,  was  there  not?  I  seem  to  remember  a  dirk 


164     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

and  the  murdered  man's  pocket-book  in  your  possession, 
and  a  few  other  things  that  were — well,  rather  un- 
pleasant." 

I  was  thrown  a  bit  off  my  guard. 

"You  remember  also,"  I  said  quickly,  "that  a  man 
disappeared  from  the  car,  taking  my  clothes,  papers 
and  everything." 

"I  remember  that  you  said  so."  Her  tone  was 
quietly  insulting,  and  I  bit  my  lip  at  having  been  caught. 
It  was  no  time  to  make  a  defense. 

"You  have  missed  one  calculation,"  I  said  coldly, 
"and  that  is,  the  discovery  of  the  man  who  left  the 
train." 

"You  have  found  him?"  She  bent  forward,  and 
again  I  regretted  my  hasty  speech.  "I  knew  it;  I  said 
so." 

"We  are  going  to  find  him,"  I  asserted,  with  a  con- 
fidence I  did  not  feel.  "We  can  produce  at  any  time 
proof  that  a  man  left  the  Flier  a  few  miles  beyond 
the  wreck.  And  we  can  find  him,  I  am  positive." 

"But  you  have  not  found  him  yet?"  She  was  clearly 
disappointed.  "Well,  so  be  it.  Now  for  our  bargain. 
You  will  admit  that  I  am  no  fool." 

I  made  no  such  admission,  and  she  smiled  mock- 
ingly. 

"How  flattering  you  are!'*  she  said.  "Very  well. 
Now  for  the  premises.  You  take  to  Pittsburg  four 
notes  held  by  the  Mechanics'  National  Bank,  to  have 
Mr.  Gilmore,  who  is  ill,  declare  his  indorsement  of 
them  forged. 


THE  NOTES  AND  A  BARGAIN     165 

"On  the  journey  back  to  Pittsburg  two  things  hap- 
pen to  you:  you  lose  your  clothing,  your  valise  and 
your  papers,  including  the  notes,  and  you  are  accused 
of  murder.  In  fact,  Mr.  Blakeley,  the  circumstances 
were  most  singular,  and  the  evidence — well,  almost 
conclusive." 

I  was  completely  at  her  mercy,  but  I  gnawed  my  lip 
with  irritation. 

"Now  for  the  bargain."  She  leaned  over  and  low- 
ered her  voice.  "A  fair  exchange,  you  know.  The 
minute  you  put  those  four  notes  in  my  hand — that 
minute  the  blow  to  my  head  has  caused  complete  for- 
getfulness  as  to  the  events  of  that  awful  morning. 
I  am  the  only  witness,  and  I  will  be  silent.  Do  you 
understand?  They  will  call  off  their  dogs." 

My  head  was  buzzing  with  the  strangeness  of  the 
idea. 

"But,"  I  said,  striving  to  gain  time,  "I  haven't  the 
notes.  I  can't  give  you  what  I  haven't  got." 

"You  have  had  the  case  continued,"  she  said  sharply. 
"You  expect  to  find  them.  Another  thing,"  she  added 
slowly,  watching  my  face,  "if  you  don't  get  them  soon, 
Bronson  will  have  them.  They  have  been  offered  to 
him  already,  but  at  a  prohibitive  price." 

"But,"  I  said,  bewildered,  "what  is  your  object  in 
coming  to  me?  If  Bronson  will  get  them  anyhow — " 

She  shut  her  fan  with  a  click  and  her  face  was  not 
particularly  pleasant  to  look  at. 

"You  are  dense,"  she  said  insolently.  "I  want  those 
papers — for  myself,  not  for  Andy  Bronson." 


166     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Then  the  idea  is,"  I  said,  ignoring  her  tone,  "that 
you  think  you  have  me  in  a  hole,  and  that  if  I  find  those 
papers  and  give  them  to  you  you  will  let  me  out.  As 
I  understand  it,  our  friend  Bronson,  under  those  cir- 
cumstances, will  also  be  in  a  hole." 

She  nodded. 

"The  notes  would  be  of  no  use  to  you  for  a  limited 
length  of  time,"  I  went  on,  watching  her  narrowly. 
"If  they  are  not  turned  over  to  the  state's  attorney 
within  a  reasonable  time  there  will  have  to  be  a  nolle 
pros — that  is,  the  case  will  simply  be  dropped  for  lack 
of  evidence." 

"A  week  would  answer,  I  think,"  she  said  slowly. 
"You  will  do  it,  then  ?" 

I  laughed,  although  I  was  not  especially  cheerful. 

"No,  I'll  not  do  it.  I  expect  to  come  across  the 
notes  any  time  now,  and  I  expect  just  as  certainly  to 
turn  them  over  to  the  state's  attorney  when  I  get 
them." 

She  got  up  suddenly,  pushing  her  chair  back  with  a 
noisy  grating  sound  that  turned  many  eyes  toward  us. 

"You're  more  of  a  fool  than  I  thought  you,"  she 
sneered,  and  left  me  at  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
MC  KNIGHT'S  THEORY 

I  CONFESS  I  was  staggered.     The  people  at  the 
surrounding  tables,  after  glancing  curiously  in  my 
direction,  looked  away  again. 

I  got  my  hat  and  went  out  in  a  very  uncomfortable 
frame  of  mind.  That  she  would  inform  the  police 
at  once  of  what  she  knew  I  never  doubted,  unless  pos- 
sibly she  would  give  a  day  or  two's  grace  in  the  hope 
that  I  would  change  my  mind. 

I  reviewed  the  situation  as  I  waited  for  a  car.  Two 
passed  me  going  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  on 
the  first  one  I  saw  Bronson,  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  his 
arms  folded,  looking  moodily  ahead.  Was  it  imagina- 
tion? or  was  the  small  man  huddled  in  the  corner  of 
the  rear  seat  Hotchkiss  ? 

As  the  car  rolled  on  I  found  myself  smiling.  The 
alert  little  man  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  terrier, 
ever  on  the  scent,  and  scouring  about  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

I  found  McKnight  at  the  Incubator,  with  his  coat 
off,  working  with  enthusiasm  and  a  manicure  file  over 
the  horn  of  his  auto. 

"It's  the  worst  horn  I  ever  ran  across,"  he  groaned, 
without  looking  up,  as  I  came  in.  "The  blankety- 
blank  thing  won't  blow." 

167 


168      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

He  punched  it  savagely,  finally  eliciting  a  faint 
throaty  croak. 

"Sounds  like  croup,"  I  suggested.  "My  sister-in-law 
uses  camphor  and  goose  greese  for  it ;  or  how  about  a 
spice  poultice?" 

But  McKnight  never  sees  any  jokes  but  his  own. 
He  flung  the  horn  clattering  into  a  corner,  and  col- 
lapsed sulkily  into  a  chair. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "if  you're  through  manicuring  that 
horn,  I'll  tell  you  about  my  talk  with  the  lady  in  black." 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  McKnight  languidly.  "Po- 
lice watching  her,  too?" 

"Not  exactly.  The  fact  is,  Rich,  there's  the  mischief 
to  pay." 

Stogie  came  in,  bringing  a  few  additions  to  our 
comfort.  When  he  went  out  I  told  my  story. 

"You  must  remember,"  I  said,  "that  I  had  seen 
this  woman  before  the  morning  of  the  wreck.  She  was 
buying  her  Pullman  ticket  when  I  did.  Then  the  next 
morning,  when  the  murder  was  discovered,  she  grew 
hysterical,  and  I  gave  her  some  whisky.  The  third 
and  last  time  I  saw  her,  until  to-night,  was  when  she 
crouched  beside  the  road,  after  the  wreck." 

McKnight  slid  down  in  his  chair  until  his  weight 
rested  on  the  small  of  his  back,  and  put  his  feet  on 
the  big  reading  table. 

"It  is  rather  a  facer,"  he  said.  "It's  really  too  good 
a  situation  for  a  commonplace  lawyer.  It  ought  to 
be  dramatized.  You  can't  agree,  of  course;  and  by 
refusing  you  run  the  chance  of  jail,  at  least,  and  of 


McKNIGHT'S  THEORY  169 

having  Alison  brought  into  publicity,  which  is  out  of 
the  question.  You  say  she  was  at  the  Pullman  winctow 
when  you  were?" 

"Yes ;  I  bought  her  ticket  for  her.  Gave  her  lower 
eleven." 

"And  you  took  ten  ?" 

"Lower  ten." 

McKnight  straightened  up  and  looked  at  me. 

"Then  she  thought  you  were  in  lower  ten." 

"I  suppose  she  did,  if  she  thought  at  all." 

"But  listen,  man."  McKnight  was  growing  excited. 
"What  do  you  figure  out  of  this  ?  The  Conway  woman 
knows  you  have  taken  the  notes  to  Pittsburg.  The 
probabilities  are  that  she  follows  you  there,  on  the 
chance  of  an  opportunity  to  get  them,  either  for  Bron- 
son  or  herself. 

"Nothing  doing  during  the  trip  over  or  during  the 
day  in  Pittsburg;  but  she  learns  the  number  of  your 
berth  as  you  buy  it  at  the  Pullman  ticket  office  in  Pitts- 
burg, and  she  thinks  she  sees  her  chance.  No  one 
could  have  foreseen  that  that  drunken  fellow  would 
have  crawled  into  your  berth. 

"Now,  I  figure  it  out  this  way:  She  wanted  those 
notes  desperately — does  still — not  for  Bronson,  but  to 
hold  over  his  head  for  some  purpose.  In  the  night, 
when  everything  is  quiet,  she  slips  behind  the  curtains 
of  lower  ten,  where  the  man's  breathiag  shows  he  is 
asleep.  Didn't  you  say  he  snored?" 

"He  did,"  I  affirmed.    "But  I  tell  you — " 

"Now  keep  still  and  listen.     She  gropes  cautiously 


170     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

around  in  the  darkness,  finally  discovering  the  wallet 
under  the  pillow.  Can't  you  see  it  yourself?" 

He  was  leaning  forward,  excitedly,  and  I  could  al- 
most see  the  gruesome  tragedy  he  was  depicting. 

"She  draws  out  the  wallet.  Then,  perhaps  she  re- 
members the  alligator  bag,  and  on  the  possibility  that 
the  notes  are  there,  instead  of  in  the  pocket-book,  she 
gropes  around  for  it.  Suddenly,  the  man  awakes  and 
clutches  at  the  nearest  object,  perhaps  her  neck  chain, 
which  breaks.  She  drops  the  pocket-book  and  tries 
to  escape,  but  he  has  caught  her  right  hand. 

"It  is  all  in  silence;  the  man  is  still  stupidly  drunk. 
But  he  holds  her  in  a  tight  grip.  Then  the  tragedy. 
She  must  get  away ;  in  a  minute  the  car  will  be  aroused. 
Such  a  woman,  on  such  an  errand,  does  not  go  without 
some  sort  of  a  weapon,  in  this  case  a  dagger,  which, 
unlike  a  revolver,  is  noiseless. 

"With  a  quick  thrust — she's  a  big  woman  and  a  bold 
one — she  strikes.  Possibly  Hotchkiss  is  right  about 
the  left-hand  blow.  Harrington  may  have  held  her 
right  hand,  or  perhaps  she  held  the  dirk  in  her  left  hand 
as  she  groped  with  her  right.  Then,  as  the  man  falls 
back,  and  his  grasp  relaxes,  she  straightens  and  at- 
tempts to  get  away.  The  swaying  of  the  car  throws 
her  almost  into  your  berth,  and,  trembling  with  terror, 
she  crouches  behind  the  curtains  of  lower  ten  until 
everything  is  still.  Then  she  goes  noiselessly  back  to 
her  berth." 

I  nodded. 

"It  seems  to  fit  partly,  at  least,"  I  said.     "In  the 


McKNIGHT'S  THEORY  171 

morning  when  she  found  that  the  crime  had  been  not 
only  fruitless,  but  that  she  had  searched  the  wrong 
berth  and  killed  the  wrong  man;  when  she  saw  me 
emerge,  unhurt,  just  as  she  was  bracing  herself  for 
the  discovery  of  my  dead  body,  then  she  went  into 
hysterics.  You  remember,  I  gave  her  some  whisky. 

"It  really  seems  a  tenable  theory.  But,  like  the  Sul- 
livan theory,  there  are  one  or  two  things  that  don't 
agree  with  the  rest.  For  one  thing,  how  did  the  re- 
mainder of  that  chain  get  into  Alison  West's  pos- 
session?" 

"She  may  have  picked  it  up  on  the  floor." 

"We'll  admit  that,"  I  said;  "and  I'm  sure  I  hope 
so.  Then  how  did  the  murdered  man's  pocket-book 
get  into  the  sealskin  bag?  And  the  dirk,  how  account 
for  that,  and  the  blood-stains?" 

"Now  what's  the  use,"  asked  McKnight  aggriev- 
edly,  "of  my  building  up  beautiful  theories  for  you  to 
pull  down?  We'll  take  it  to  Hotchkiss.  Maybe  he 
can  tell  from  the  blood-stains  if  the  murderer's  finger 
nails  were  square  or  pointed." 

"Hotchkiss  is  no  fool,"  I  said  warmly.  "Under 
all  his  theories  there's  a  good  hard  layer  of  common 
sense.  And  we  must  remember,  Rich,  that  neither  of 
our  theories  includes  the  woman  at  Doctor  Van  Kirk's 
hospital,  that  the  charming  picture  you  have  just  drawn 
does  not  account  for  Alison  West's  connection  with 
the  case,  or  for  the  bits  of  telegram  in  the  Sullivan 
fellow's  pajamas  pocket.  You  are  like  the  man  who 


172     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

put  the  clock  together;  you've  got  half  of  the  works 
left  over." 

"Oh,  go  home,"  said  McKnight  disgustedly.  "I'm 
no  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  What's  the  use  of  coming  here 
and  asking  me  things  if  you're  so  particular?" 

With  one  of  his  quick  changes  of  mood,  he  picked 
up  his  guitar. 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  Hawaiian  song 
about  a  fat  lady,  oh,  ignorant  one !  and  how  she  fell 
off  her  mule," 

But  for  all  the  lightness  of  the  words,  the  voice  that 
followed  me  down  the  stairs  was  anything  but  cheery. 

"There  was  a  Kanaka  in  Balu  did  dwell, 
Who  had  for  his  daughter  a  monstrous  fat  girl — " 

he  sang  in  his  clear  tenor.  I  paused  on  the  lower 
floor  and  listened.  He  had  stopped  singing  as  abruptly 
as  he  had  begun. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AT  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE 

I  HAD  not  been  home  for  thirty-six  hours,  since 
the  morning  of  the  preceding  day.  Johnson  was 
not  in  sight,  and  I  let  myself  in  quietly  with  my  latch- 
key. It  was  almost  midnight,  and  I  had  hardly  settled 
myself  in  the  library  when  the  bell  rang  and  I  was 
surprised  to  find  Hotchkiss,  much  out  of  breath,  in 
the  vestibule. 

"Why,  come  in,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  I  said.  "I  thought 
you  were  going  home  to  go  to  bed." 

"So  I  was,  so  I  was."  He  dropped  into  a  chair 
beside  my  reading  lamp  and  mopped  his  face.  "And 
here  it  is  almost  midnight,  and  I'm  wider  awake  than 
ever.  I've  seen  Sullivan,  Mr.  Blakeley." 

"You  have!" 

"I  have,"  he  said  impressively. 

"You  were  following  Bronson  at  eight  o'clock.  Was 
that  when  it  happened?" 

"Something  of  the  sort.  When  I  left  you  at  the 
door  of  the  restaurant,  I  turned  and  almost  ran  into 
a  plain  clothes  man  from  the  central  office.  I  know 
him  pretty  well;  once  or  twice  he  has  taken  me  with 
him  on  interesting  bits  of  work.  He  knows  my  hobby." 

"You  know  him,  too,  probably.  It  was  the  man 
Arnold,  the  detective  whom  the  state's  attorney  has 
had  watching  Bronson." 

173 


174     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Johnson  being  otherwise  occupied,  I  had  asked  for 
Arnold  myself. 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  he  stopped  me  at  once;  said  he'd  been  on 
the  fellow's  tracks  since  early  morning  and  had  had 
no  time  for  luncheon.  Bronson,  it  seems,  isn't  eating 
much  these  days.  I  at  once  jotted  down  the  fact,  be- 
cause it  argued  that  he  was  being  bothered  by  the  man 
with  the  notes." 

"It  might  point  to  other  things,"  I  suggested.  "In- 
digestion, you  know." 

Hotchkiss  ignored  me.  "Well,  Arnold  had  some 
reason  foY  thinking  that  Bronson  would  try  to  give 
him  the  slip  that  night,  so  he  asked  me  to  stay  around 
the  private  entrance  there  while  he  ran  across  the 
street  and  got  something  to  eat.  It  seemed  a  fair 
presumption  that,  as  he  had  gone  there  with  a  lady, 
they  would  dine  leisurely,  and  Arnold  would  have 
plenty  of  time  to  get  back." 

"What  about  your  own  dinner?"  I  asked  curiously. 

"Sir,"  he  said  pompously,  "I  have  given  you  a  wrong 
estimate  of  Wilson  Budd  Hotchkiss  if  you  think  that 
a  question  of  dinner  would  even  obtrude  itself  on  his 
mind  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

He  was  a  frail  little  man,  and  to-night  he  looked 
pale  with  heat  and  over-exertion. 

"Did  you  have  any  luncheon?"  I  asked. 

He  was  somewhat  embarrassed  at  that. 

"I — really,  Mr.  Blakeley,  the  events  of  the  day  were 
so  engrossing — " 


AT  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE     175 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  see  you  drop  on 
the  floor  from  exhaustion.  Just  wait  a  minute." 

I  went  back  to  the  pantry,  only  to  be  confronted 
with  rows  of  locked  doors  and  empty  dishes.  Down- 
stairs, in  the  basement  kitchen,  however,  I  found  two 
unattractive  looking  cold  chops,  some  dry  bread  and 
a  piece  of  cake,  wrapped  in  a  napkin,  and  from  its 
surreptitious  and  generally  hang-dog  appearance,  des- 
tined for  the  coachman  in  the  stable  at  the  rear.  Trays 
there  were  none — everything  but  the  chairs  and  tables 
seemed  under  lock  and  key,  and  there  was  neither  nap- 
kin, knife  nor  fork  to  be  found. 

The  luncheon  was  not  attractive  in  appearance,  but 
Hotchkiss  ate  his  cold  chops  and  gnawed  at  his  crusts 
as  though  he  had  been  famished,  while  he  told  his 
story. 

"I  had  been  there  only  a  few  minutes,"  he  said, 
with  a  chop  in  one  hand  and  the  cake  in  the  other, 
"when  Bronson  rushed  out  and  cut  across  the  street. 
He's  a  tall  man,  Mr.  Blakeley,  and  I  had  hard  work 
keeping  close.  It  was  a  relief  when  he  jumped  on  a 
passing  car,  although  being  well  behind,  it  was  a  hard 
run  for  me  to  catch  him.  He  had  left  the  lady. 

"Once  on  the  car,  we  simply  rode  from  one  endpf 
the  line  to  the  other  and  back  again.  I  suppose  he 
was  passing  the  time,  for  he  looked  at  his  watch  now 
and  then,  and  when  I  did  once  get  a  look  at  his  face 
it  made  me — er — uncomfortable.  He  could  have 
crushed  me  like  a  fly,  sir." 

I  had  brought  Mr.  Hotchkiss  a  glass  of  wine,  and 


176     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

he  was  looking  better.  He  stopped  to  finish  it,  de- 
clining with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  have  it  refilled,  and 
continued : 

"About  nine  o'clock  or  a  little  later  he  got  off  some- 
where near  Washington  Circle.  He  went  along  one 
of  the  residence  streets  there,  turned  to  his  left  a  square 
or  two,  and  rang  a  bell.  He  had  been  admitted  when 
I  got  there,  but  I  guessed  from  the  appearance  of  the 
place  that  it  was  a  boarding-house. 

"I  waited  a  few  minutes  and  rang  the  bell.  When 
a  maid  answered  it,  I  asked  for  Mr.  Sullivan.  Of 
course  there  was  no  Mr.  Sullivan  there. 

"I  said  I  was  sorry ;  that  the  man  I  was  looking  for 
was  a  new  boarder.  She  was  sure  there  was  no  such 
boarder  in  the  house ;  the  only  new  arrival  was  a  man 
on  the  third  floor — she  thought  his  name  was  Stuart. 

"  'My  friend  has  a  cousin  by  that  name,'  I  said.  Til 
just  go  up  and  see.' 

"She  wanted  to  show  me  up,  but  I  said  it  was  un- 
necessary. So  after  telling  me  it  was  the  bedroom 
and  sitting-room  on  the  third  floor  front,  I  went  up.% 

"I  met  a  couple  of  men  on  the  stairs,  but  neither 
of  them  paid  any  attention  to  me.  A  boarding-house 
is  the  easiest  place  in  the  world  to  enter." 

"They're  not  always  so  easy  to  leave,"  I  put  in,  to 
his  evident  irritation. 

"When  I  got  to  the  third  story,  I  took  out  a  bunch 
of  keys  and  posted  myself  by  a  door  near  the  ones  the 
girl  had  indicated.  I  could  hear  voices  in  one  of  the 
front  rooms,  but  could  not  understand  what  they  saidt 


AT  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE     177 

'There  was  no  violent  dispute,  but  a  steady  hum. 
Then  Bronson  jerked  the  door  open.  If  he  had 
stepped  into  the  hall  he  would  have  seen  me  fitting  a 
key  into  the  door  before  me.  But  he  spoke  before  he 
came  out. 

"  'You're  acting  like  a  maniac,'  he  said.  'You  know 
I  can  get  those  things  some  way;  I'm  not  going  to 
threaten  you.  It  isn't  necessary.  You  know  me.' 

"  'It  would  be  no  use,'  the  other  man  said.  'I  tell 
you,  I  haven't  seen  the  notes  for  ten  days.' 

"  'But  you  will,'  Bronson  said  savagely.  'You're 
standing  in  your  own  way,  that's  all.  If  you're  holding 
out  expecting  me  to  raise  my  figure,  you're  making  a 
mistake.  It's  my  last  offer.' 

"  'I  couldn't  take  it  if  it  was  for  a  million,'  said 
the  man  inside  the  room.  Td  do  it,  I  expect,  if  I  could. 
The  best  of  us  have  our  price.' 

"Bronson  slammed  the  door  then,  and  flung  past 
me  down  the  hall. 

"After  a  couple  of  minutes  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
and  a  tall  man  about  your  size,  Mr.  Blakeley,  opened 
it.  He  was  very  blond,  with  a  smooth  face  and  blue 
eyes — what  I  think  you  would  call  a  handsome  man. 

"  'I  beg  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you,'  I  said. 
'Can  you  tell  me  which  is  Mr.  Johnson's  room?  Mr. 
Francis  Johnson?' 

"  'I  can  not  say,'  he  replied  civilly.  'I've  only  been 
here  a  few  days.' 

"I  thanked  him  and  left,  but  I  had  had  a  good  look 
at  him,  and  I  think  I'd  know  him  readily  any  place." 


178     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  sat  for  a  few  minutes  thinking  it  over.  "But  what 
did  he  mean  by  saying  he  hadn't  seen  the  notes  for 
ten  days?  And  why  is  Bronson  making  the  over- 
tures?" 

"I  think  he  was  lying,"  Hotchkiss  reflected.  "Bron- 
son hasn't  reached  his  figure." 

"It's  a  big  advance,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  and  I  appreciate 
what  you  have  done  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  I  said. 
"And  now,  if  you  can  locate  any  of  my  property  in 
this  fellow's  room,  we'll  send  him  up  for  larceny,  and 
at  least  have  him  where  we  can  get  at  him.  I'm  going 
to  Cresson  to-morrow,  to  try  to  trace  him  a  little  from 
there.  But  I'll  be  back  in  a  couple  of  days,  and  we'll 
begin  to  gather  in  these  scattered  threads." 

Hotchkiss  rubbed  his  hands  together  delightedly. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "That's  what  we  want  to  do, 
Mr.  Blakeley.  We'll  gather  up  the  threads  ourselves ; 
if  we  let  the  police  in  too  soon,  they'll  tangle  it  up 
again.  I'm  not  vindictive  by  nature ;  but  when  a  fellow 
like  Sullivan  not  only  commits  a  murder,  but  goes  to 
all  sorts  of  trouble  to  put  the  burden  of  guilt  on  an 
innocent  man — I  say  hunt  him  down,  sir !" 

"You  are  convinced,  of  course,  that  Sullivan  did 
it?" 

"Who  else?"  He  looked  over  his  glasses  at  me  with 
the  air  of  a  man  whose  mental  attitude  is  unassailable. 

"Well,  listen  to  this,"  I  said. 

Then  I  told  him  at  length  of  my  encounter  with 
Bronson  in  the  restaurant,  of  the  bargain  proposed 


AT  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE     179 

by  Mrs.  Conway,  and  finally  of  McKnight's  new  theory. 
But,  although  he  was  impressed,  he  was  far  from  con- 
vinced. 

"It's  a  very  vivid  piece  of  imagination,"  he  said 
drily;  "but  while  it  fits  the  evidence  as  far  as  it  goes, 
it  doesn't  go  far  enough.  How  about  the  stains  in  lower 
seven,  the  dirk,  and  the  wallet  ?  Haven't  we  even  got 
motive  in  that  telegram  from  Bronson  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "but  that  bit  of  chain—" 

"Poohj"  he  said  shortly.  "Perhaps,  like  yourself, 
Sullivan  wore  glasses  with  a  chain.  Our  not  finding 
them  does  not  prove  they  did  not  exist." 

And  there  I  made  an  error;  half  confidences  are 
always  mistakes.  I  could  not  tell  of  the  broken  chain 
in  Alison  West's  gold  purse. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  Hotchkiss  finally  left.  We 
had  by  that  time  arranged  a  definite  course  of  action — 
Hotchkiss  to  search  Sullivan's  rooms  and  if  possible 
find  evidence  to  have  him  held  for  larceny,  while  I 
went  to  Cresson. 

Strangely  enough,  however,  when  I  entered  the  train 
the  following  morning,  Hotchkiss  was  already  there. 
He  had  bought  a  new  note-book,  and  was  sharpening 
a  fresh  pencil. 

"I  changed  my  plans,  you  see,"  he  said,  bustling 
his  newspaper  aside  for  me.  "It  is  no  discredit  to 
your  intelligence,  Mr.  Blakeley,  but  you  lack  the  pro- 
fessional eye,  the  analytical  mind.  You  legal  gentle- 
men call  a  spade  a  spade,  although  it  may  be  a  shovel," 


180     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"  'A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  nothing  more !'  " 

I  quoted  as  the  train  pulled  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS 

I  SLEPT  most  of  the  way  to  Cresson,  to  the  dis- 
gust of  the  little  detective.  Finally  he  struck 
up  an  acquaintance  with  a  kindly-faced  old  priest  on 
his  way  home  to  his  convent  school,  armed  with  a  roll 
of  dance  music  and  surreptitious  bundles  that  looked 
like  boxes  of  candy.  From  scraps  of  conversation  I 
gleaned  that  there  had  been  mysterious  occurrences  at 
the  convent, — ending  in  the  theft  of  what  the  reverend 
father  called  vaguely,  "a  quantity  of  undermuslins." 
I  dropped  asleep  at  that  point,  and  when  I  roused  a 
few  moments  later,  the  conversation  had  progressed. 
Hotchkiss  had  a  diagram  on  an  envelope. 

"With  this  window  bolted,  and  that  one  inaccessible, 
and  if,  as  you  say,  the — er — garments  were  in  a  tub 
here  at  X,  then,  as  you  hold  the  key  to  the  other  door, 
— I  think  you  said  the  convent  dog  did  not  raise  any 
disturbance?  Pardon  a  personal  question,  but  do  you 
ever  walk  in  your  sleep?" 

The  priest  looked  bewildered. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  Hotchkiss  said  cheerfully, 
leaning  forward,  "look  around  a  little  yourself  before 
you  call  in  the  police.  Somnambulism  is  a  queer 
thing.  It's  a  question  whether  we  are  most  ourselves 
sleeping  or  waking.  Ever  think  of  that?  Live  a 
181 


182      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

saintly  life  all  day,  prayers  and  matins  and  all  that, 
and  the  subconscious  mind  hikes  you  out  of  bed  at 
night  to  steal  undermuslins !  Subliminal  theft,  so  to 
speak.  Better  examine  the  roof." 

I  dozed  again.  ^When  I  wakened  Hotchkiss  sat 
alone,  and  the  priest,  from  a  corner,  was  staring  at 
him  dazedly,  over  his  breviary. 

It  was  raining  when  we  reached  Cresson,  a  wind- 
driven  rain  that  had  forced  the  agent  at  the  news- 
stand to  close  himself  in,  and  that  beat  back  from  the 
rails  in  parallel  lines  of  white  spray.  As  he  went  up 
the  main  street,  Hotchkiss  was  cheerfully  oblivious 
of  the  weather,  of  the  threatening  dusk,  of  our  gen- 
erally draggled  condition.  My  draggled  condition,  I 
should  say,  for  he  improved  every  moment, — his  eyes 
brighter,  his  ruddy  face  ruddier,  his  collar  newer  and 
glossier.  Sometime,  when  it  does  not  encircle  the  little 
man's  neck,  I  shall  test  that  collar  with  a  match. 

I  was  growing  steadily  more  depressed:  I  loathed 
my  errand  and  its  necessity.  I  had  always  held  that 
a  man  who  played  the  spy  on  a  woman  was  beneath 
contempt.  Then,  I  admit  I  was  afraid  of  what  I  might 
learn.  For  a  time,  however,  this  promised  to  be  a 
negligible  quantity.  The  streets  of  the  straggling 
little  mountain  town  had  been  clean-washed  of  hu- 
manity by  the  downpour.  Windows  and  doors  were 
inhospitably  shut,  and  from  around  an  occasional  drawn 
shade  came  narrow  strips  of  light  that  merely  empha- 
sized our  gloom.  When  Hotchkiss'  umbrella  turned 
inside  out,  I  stopped. 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     183 

"I  don't  know  where  you  are  going,"  I  snarled, 
"and  I  don't  care.  But  I'm  going  to  get  under  cover 
inside  of  ten  seconds.  I'm  not  amphibious." 

I  ducked  into  the  next  shelter,  which  happened  to 
be  the  yawning  entrance  to  a  livery  stable,  and  shook 
myself,  dog  fashion.  Hotchkiss  wiped  his  collar  with 
his  handkerchief.  It  emerged  gleaming  and  unwilted. 

"This  will  do  as  well  as  any  place,"  he  said,  raising 
his  voice  above  the  rattle  of  the  rain.  "Got  to  make  a 
beginning." 

I  sat  down  on  the  usual  chair  without  a  back,  just 
inside  the  door,  and  stared  out  at  the  darkening  street. 
The  whole  affair  had  an  air  of  unreality.  Now  that 
I  was  there,  I  doubted  the  necessity,  or  the  value^  of 
the  journey.  I  was  wet  and  uncomfortable.  Around 
me,  with  Cresson  as  a  center,  stretched  an  irregular 
circumference  of  mountain,  with  possibly  a  ten-mile 
radius,  and  in  it  I  was  to  find  the  residence  of  a  woman 
whose  first  name  I  did  not  know,  and  a  man  who,  so 
far,  had  been  a  purely  chimerical  person. 

Hotchkiss  had  penetrated  the  steaming  interior  of 
the  cave,  and  now  his  voice,  punctuated  by  the  occa- 
sional thud  of  horses'  hoofs,  came  to  me. 

"Something  light  will  do,"  he  was  saying.  "A  run- 
about, perhaps."  He  came  forward  rubbing  his  hands, 
followed  by  a  thin  man  in  overalls.  "Mr.  Peck  says," 
he  began, — "this  is  Mr.  Peck  of  Peck  and  Peck, — says 
that  the  place  we  are  looking  for  is  about  seven  miles 
from  the  town.  It's  clearing,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  not,"  I  returned  savagely.     "And  we  don't 


184      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

want  a  runabout,  Mr.  Peck.  What  we  require  is  an 
hermetically  sealed  diving  suit.  I  suppose  there  isn't 
a  machine  to  be  had?"  Mr.  Peck  gazed  at  me  in  si- 
lence :  machine  to  him  meant  other  things  than  motors. 
"Automobile,"  I  supplemented.  His  face  cleared. 

"None  but  private  affairs.  I  can  give  you  a  good 
buggy  with  a  rubber  apron.  Mike,  is  the  doctor's 
horse  in?" 

I  am  still  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  raw-boned 
roan  we  took  out  that  night  over  the  mountains  was 
the  doctor's  horse  or  not.  If  it  was,  the  doctor  may 
be  a  good  doctor,  but  he  doesn't  know  anything  about 
a  horse.  And  furthermore,  I  hope  he  didn't  need  the 
beast  that  miserable  evening. 

While  they  harnessed  the  horse,  Hotchkiss  told  me 
what  he  had  learned. 

"Six  Curtises  in  the  town  and  vicinity,"  he  said. 
"Sort  of  family  name  around  here.  One  of  them  is 
telegraph  operator  at  the  station.  Person  we  are  look- 
ing for  is — was — a  wealthy  widow  with  a  brother — 
named  Sullivan!  Both  supposed  to  have  been  killed 
on  the  Flier." 

"Her  brother,"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"You  see,"  Hotchkiss  went  on,  "three  people,  in 
one  party,  took  the  train  here  that  night,  Miss  West, 
Mrs.  Curtis  and  Sullivan.  The  two  women  had  the 
drawing-room,  Sullivan  had  lower  seven.-  What  we 
want  to  find  out  is  just  who  these  people  were,  where 
they  came  from,  if  Bronson  knew  them,  and  how  Miss 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     185 

West  became  entangled  with  them.  She  may  have 
married  Sullivan,  for  one  thing." 

I  fell  into  gloom  after  that.  The  roan  was  led  un- 
willingly into  the  weather,  Hotchkiss  and  I  in  eclipse 
behind  the  blanket.  The  liveryman  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  called  directions  to  us.  "You  can't  miss  it," 
he  finished.  "Got  the  name  over  the  gate  anyhow, 
The  Laurels.'  The  servants  are  still  there :  leastways, 
we  didn't  bring  them  down."  He  even  took  a  step 
into  the  rain  as  Hotchkiss  picked  up  the  lines.  "If 
you're  going  to  settle  the  estate,"  he  bawled,  "don't 
forget  us,  Peck  and  Peck.  A  half-bushel  of  name 
and  a  bushel  of  service." 

Hotchkiss  could  not  drive.  Born  a  clerk,  he  guided 
the  roan  much  as  he  would  drive  a  bad  pen.  And  the 
roan  spattered  through  puddles  and  splashed  ink — mud, 
that  is — until  I  was  in  a  frenzy  of  irritation. 

"What  are  we  going  to  say  when  we  get  there?" 
I  asked  after  I  had  finally  taken  the  reins  in  my  one 
useful  hand.  "Get  out  there  at  midnight  and  tell  the 
servants  we  have  come  to  ask  a  few  questions  about 
the  family  ?  It's  an  idiotic  trip  anyhow ;  I  wish  I  had 
stayed  at  home." 

The  roan  fell  just  then,  and  we  had  to  crawl  out 
and  help  him  up.  By  the  time  we  had  partly  unhar- 
nessed him  our  matches  were  gone,  and  the  small  bi- 
cycle lamp  on  the  buggy  was  wavering  only  too  cer- 
tainly. We  were  covered  with  mud,  panting  with  exer- 
tion, and  even  Hotchkiss  showed  a  disposition  to  be 
surly.  The  rain,  which  had  lessened  for  a  time,  came 


186      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

on  again,  the  lightning  flashes  doing  more  than  any- 
thing else  to  reveal  our  isolated  position. 

Another  mile  saw  us,  if  possible,  more  despondent. 
The  water  in  our  clothes  had  had  time  to  penetrate: 
the  roan  had  sprained  his  shoulder,  and  drew  us  along 
in  a  series  of  convulsive  jerks.  And  then  through  £he 
rain-spattered  window  of  the  blanket,  I  saw  a  light. 
It  was  a  small  light,  rather  yellow,  and  it  lasted  per- 
haps thirty  seconds.  Hotchkiss  missed  it,  and  was  in- 
clined to  doubt  me.  But  in  a  couple  of  minutes  the 
roan  hobbled  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  stopped,  and 
I  made  out  a  break  in  the  pines  and  an  arched  gate. 

It  was  a  small  gate,  too  narrow  for  the  buggy.  I 
pulled  the  horse  into  as  much  shelter  as  possible  under 
the  trees,  and  we  got  out.  Hotchkiss  tied  the  beast 
and  we  left  him  there,  head  down  against  the  driving 
rain,  drooping  and  dejected.  Then  we  went  toward 
the  house. 

It  was  a  long  walk.  The  path  bent  and  twisted,  and 
now  and  then  we  lost  it.  We  were  climbing  as  we  went. 
Oddly  there  were  no  lights  ahead,  although  it  was  only 
ten  o'clock, — not  later.  Hotchkiss  kept  a  little  ahead  of 
me,  knocking  into  trees  now  and  then,  but  finding 
the  path  in  half  the  time  I  should  have  taken.  Once, 
as  I  felt  my  way  around  a  tree  in  the  blackness,  I  put 
my  hand  unexpectedly  on  his  shoulder,  and  felt  a  shud- 
der go  down  my  back. 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  he  protested,  when 
I  remonstrated.  "Hang  out  a  red  lantern?  What  was 
that?  Listen." 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     187 

We  both  stood  peering  into  the  gloom.  The  sharp 
patter  of  the  rain  on  leaves  had  ceased,  and  from  just 
ahead  there  came  back  to  us  the  stealthy  padding  of 
feet  in  wet  soil.  My  hand  closed  on  Hotchkiss'  shoul- 
der, and  we  listened  together,  warily.  The  steps  were 
close  by,  unmistakable.  The  next  flash  of  lightning 
showed  nothing  moving:  the  house  was  in  full  view 
now,  dark  and  uninviting,  looming  huge  above  a  ter- 
race, with  an  Italian  garden  at  the  side.  Then  the 
blackness  again.  Somebody's  teeth  were  chattering: 
I  accused  Hotchkiss  but  he  denied  it. 

"Although  I'm  not  very  comfortable,  I'll  admit,"  he 
confessed;  "there  was  something  breathing  right  at 
my  elbow  here  a  moment  ago." 

"Nonsense!"  I  took  his  elbow  and  steered  him  in 
what  I  made  out  to  be  the  direction  of  the  steps  of 
the  Italian  garden.  "I  saw  a  deer  just  ahead  by  the 
last  flash;  that's  what  you  heard.  By  Jove,  I  hear 
wheels." 

We  paused  to  listen  and  Hotchkiss  put  his  hand  on 
something  close  to  us.  "Here's  your  deer,"  he  said. 
"Bronze." 

As  we  neared  the  house  the  sense  of  surveillance  we 
had  had  in  the  park  gradually  left  us.  Stumbling  over 
flower  beds,  running  afoul  of  a  sun-dial,  groping  our 
way  savagely  along  hedges  and  thorny  banks,  we 
reached  the  steps  finally  and  climbed  the  terrace. 

It  was  then  that  Hotchkiss  fell  over  one  of  the  two 
stone  urns  which,  with  tall  boxwood  trees  in  them, 
mounted  guard  at  each  side  of  the  door.  He  didn't 


188     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

make  any  attempt  to  get  up.  He  sat  in  a  puddle  on 
the  brick  floor  of  the  terrace  and  clutched  his  leg  and 
swore  softly  in  Government  English. 

The  occasional  relief  of  the  lightning  was  gone.  I 
could  not  see  an  outline  of  the  house  before  me.  We 
had  no  matches,  and  an  instant's  investigation  showed 
that  the  windows  were  boarded  and  the  house  closed. 
Hotchkiss,  still  recumbent,  was  ascertaining  the  dam- 
age, tenderly  peeling  down  his  stocking. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  said  finally,  "I  don't  know 
whether  this  moisture  is  blood  or  rain.  I  think  I've 
broken  a  bone." 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water,"  I  suggested.  "Is  it 
sticky?  See  if  you  can  move  your  toes." 

There  was  a  pause :  Hotchkiss  moved  his  toes.  By 
that  time  I  had  found  a  knocker  and  was  making  the 
night  hideous.  But  there  was  no  response  save  the 
wind  that  blew  sodden  leaves  derisively  in  our  faces. 
Once  Hotchkiss  declared  he  heard  a  window-sash  lifted, 
but  renewed  violence  with  the  knocker  produced  no 
effect. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  I  said  finally.  "I'll 
go  back  and  try  to  bring  the  buggy  up  for  you.  You 
can't  walk,  can  you?" 

Hotchkiss  sat  back  in  his  puddle  and  said  he  didn't 
think  he  could  stir,  but  for  me  to  go  back  to  town  and 
leave  him,  that  he  didn't  have  any  family  dependent 
on  him,  and  that  if  he  was  going  to  have  pneumonia 
he  had  probably  got  it  already.  I  left  him  there,  and 
started  back  to  get  the  horse. 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     189 

If  possible,  it  was  worse  than  before.  There  was 
no  lightning,  and  only  by  a  miracle  did  I  find  the  little 
gate  again.  I  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  followed 
by  another,  equally  long,  of  dismay.  For  I  had  found 
the  hitching  strap  and  there  was  nothing  at  the  end 
of  it !  In  a  lull  of  the  wind  I  seemed  to  hear,  far  off, 
the  eager  thud  of  stable-bound  feet.  So  for  the  second 
time  I  climbed  the  slope  to  the  Laurels,  and  on  the 
way  I  thought  of  many  things  to  say. 

I  struck  the  house  at  a  new  angle,  for  I  found  a 
veranda,  destitute  of  chairs  and  furnishings,  but  dry 
and  evidently  roofed.  It  was  better  than  the  terrace, 
and  so,  by  groping  along  the  wall,  I  tried  to  make  my 
way  to  Hotchkiss.  That  was  how  I  found  the  open 
window.  I  had  passed  perhaps  six,  all  closed,  and  to 
have  my  hand  grope  for  the  next  one,  and  to  find  in- 
stead the  soft  drapery  of  an  inner  curtain,  was  star- 
tling, to  say  the  least. 

I  found  Hotchkiss  at  last  around  an  angle  of  the 
stone  wallt  and  told  him  that  the  horse  was  gone.  He 
was  disconcerted,  but  not  abased;  maintaining  that  it 
was  a  new  kind  of  knot  that  couldn't  slip  and  that  the 
horse  must  have  chewed  the  halter  through!  He  was 
less  enthusiastic  than  I  had  expected  about  the  window. 

"It  looks  uncommonly  like  a  trap,"  he  said.  "I 
tell  you  there  was  some  one  in  the  park  below  when 
we  were  coming  up.  Man  has  a  sixth  sense  that  scien- 
tists ignore — a  sense  of  the  nearness  of  things.  And 
all  the  time  you  have  been  gone,  some  one  has  been 
watching  me." 


190     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Couldn't  see  you,"  I  maintained;  "I  can't  see  you 
now.  And  your  sense  of  contiguity  didn't  tell  you 
about  that  flower  crock." 

In  the  end,  of  course,  he  consented  to  go  with  me. 
He  was  very  lame,  and  I  helped  him  around  to  the  open 
window.  He  was  full  of  moral  courage,  the  little 
man :  it  was  only  the  physical  in  him  that  quailed.  And 
as  we  groped  along,  he  insisted  on  going  through  the 
window  first. 

"If  it  is  a  trap,"  he  whispered,  "I  have  two  arms 
to  your  one,  and,  besides,  as  I  said  before,  life  holds 
much  for  you.  As  for  me,  the  government  would 
merely  lose  an  indifferent  employee." 

When  he  found  I  was  going  first  he  was  rather  hurt, 
but  I  did  not  wait  for  his  protests.  I  swung  my  feet 
over  the  sill  and  dropped.  I  made  a  clutch  at  the 
window- frame  with  my  good  hand  when  I  found  no 
floor  under  my  feet,  but  I  was  too  late.  I  dropped 
probably  ten  feet  and  landed  with  a  crash  that  seemed 
to  split  my  ear-drums.  I  was  thoroughly  shaken,  but 
in  some  miraculous  way  the  bandaged  arm  had  escaped 
injury. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  Hotchkiss  was  calling  from 
above,  "have  you  broken  your  back?" 

"No,"  I  returned,  as  steadily  as  I  could,  "merely 
driven  it  up  through  my  skull.  This  is  a  staircase. 
I'm  coming  up  to  open  another  window." 

It  was  eerie  work,  but  I  accomplished  it  finally,  dis- 
covering, not  without  mishap,  a  room  filled  with  more 
tables  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of,  tables  that  seemed 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     191 

to  waylay  and  strike  at  me.  When  I  had  got  a  window 
open,  Hotchkiss  crawled  through,  and  we  were  at  last 
under  shelter. 

Our  first  thought  was  for  a  light.  The  same  labo- 
rious investigation  that  had  landed  us  where  we  were, 
revealed  that  the  house  was  lighted  by  electricity,  and 
that  the  plant  was  not  in  operation.  By  accident  I 
stumbled  across  a  tabouret  with  smoking  materials, 
and  found  a  half  dozen  matches.  The  first  one  showed 
us  the  magnitude  of  the  room  we  stood  in,  and  revealed 
also  a  brass  candle-stick  by  the  open  fireplace,  a  candle- 
stick almost  four  feet  high,  supporting  a  candle  of 
similar  colossal  proportions.  It  was  Hotchkiss  who 
discovered  that  it  had  been  recently  lighted.  He  held 
the  match  to  it  and  peered  at  it  over  his  glasses. 

"Within  ten  minutes,"  he  announced  impressively, 
"this  candle  has  been  burning.  Look  at  the  wax !  And 
the  wick!  Both  soft." 

"Perhaps  it's  the  damp  weather,"  I  ventured,  moving 
a  little  nearer  to  the  circle  of  light.  A  gust  of  wind 
came  in  just  then,  and  the  flame  turned  over  on  its 
side  and  threatened  demise.  There  was  something  al- 
most ridiculous  in  the  haste  with  which  we  put  down 
the  window  and  nursed  the  flicker  to  life. 

The  peculiarly  ghost-like  appearance  of  the  room 
added  to  the  uncanniness  of  the  situation.  The  furni- 
ture was  swathed  in  white  covers  for  the  winter ;  even 
the  pictures  wore  shrouds.  And  in  a  niche  between 
two  windows  a  bust  on  a  pedestal,  similarly  wrapped, 


192      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

one  arm  extended  under  its  winding  sheet,  made  a 
most  life-like  ghost,  if  any  ghost  can  be  life-like. 

In  the  light  of  the  candle  we  surveyed  each  other, 
and  we  were  objects  for  mirth.  Hotchkiss  was  taking 
off  his  sodden  shoes  and  preparing  to  make  himself 
comfortable,  while  I  hung  my  muddy  raincoat  over 
the  ghost  in  the  corner.  Thus  habited,  he  presented  a 
rakish  but  distinctly  more  comfortable  appearance. 

"When  these  people  built,"  Hotchkiss  said,  survey- 
ing the  huge  dimensions  of  the  room,  "they  must  have 
bought  a  mountain  and  built  all  over  it.  tWhat  a 
room !" 

It  seemed  to  be  a  living-room,  although  Hotchkiss 
remarked  that  it  was  much  more  like  a  dead  one.  It 
was  probably  fifty  feet  long  and  twenty-five  feet  wide. 
It  was  very  high,  too,  with  a  domed  ceiling,  and  a  gal- 
lery ran  around  the  entire  room,  about  fifteen  feet 
above  the  floor.  The  candle  light  did  not  penetrate 
beyond  the  dim  outlines  of  the  gallery  rail,  but  I  fan- 
cied the  wall  there  hung  with  smaller  pictures. 

Hotchkiss  had  discovered  a  fire  laid  in  the  enormous 
fireplace,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  steaming  be- 
fore a  cheerful  blaze.  Within  the  radius  of  its  light 
and  heat,  we  were  comfortable  again.  But  the  bright- 
ness merely  emphasized  the  gloom  of  the  ghostly  cor- 
ners. We  talked  in  subdued  tones,  and  I  smoked, a 
box  of  Russian  cigarettes  which  I  found  in  a  table 
drawer.  We  had  decided  to  say  all  night,  there  being 
nothing  else  to  do.  I  suggested  a  game  of  double- 
dummy  bridge,  but  did  not  urge  it  when  my  companion 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     193 

asked  me  if  it  resembled  euchre.  Gradually,  as  the 
ecclesiastical  candle  paled  in  the  firelight,  we  grew 
drowsy.  I  drew  a  divan  into  the  cheerful  area,  and 
stretched  myself  out  for  sleep.  Hotchkiss,  who  said 
the  pain  in  his  leg  made  him  wakeful,  sat  wide-eyed 
by  the  fire,  smoking  a  pipe. 

I  have  no  idea  how  much  time  had  passed  when 
something  threw  itself  violently  on  my  chest.  I  roused 
with  a  start  and  leaped  to  my  feet,  and  a  large  Angora 
cat  fell  with  a  thump  to  the  floor.  The  fire  was  still 
bright,  and  there  was  an  odor  of  scorched  leather 
through  the  room,  from  Hotchkiss'  shoes.  The  little 
detective  was  sound  asleep,  his  dead  pipe  in  his  fingers. 
The  cat  sat  back  on  its  haunches  and  wailed. 

The  curtain  at  the  door  into  the  hallway  bellied 
slowly  out  into  the  room  and  fell  again.  The  cat 
looked  toward  it  and  opened  its  mouth  for  another 
howl.  I  thrust  at  it  with  my  foot,  but  it  refused  to 
move.  Hotchkiss  stirred  uneasily,  and  his  pipe  clat- 
tered to  the  floor. 

The  cat  was  standing  at  my  feet,  staring  behind  me. 
Apparently  it  was  following  with  its  eyes,  an  object 
unseen  to  me,  that  moved  behind  me.  The  tip  of  its 
tail  waved  threateningly,  but  when  I  wheeled  I  saw 
nothing. 

I  took  the  candle  and  made  a  circuit  of  the  room. 
Behind  the  curtain  that  had  moved  the  door  was  se- 
curely closed.  The  windows  were  shut  and  locked,  and 
everywhere  the  silence  was  absolute.  The  cat  followed 
me  majestically.  I  stooped  and  stroked  its  head,  but 


194     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

it  persisted  in  its  uncanny  watching  of  the  corners  of 
the  room. 

When  I  went  back  to  my  divan,  after  putting  a  fresh 
log  on  the  fire,  I  was  reassured.  I  took  the  precaution, 
and  smiled  at  myself  for  doing  it,  to  put  the  fire  tongs 
within  reach  of  my  hand.  But  the  cat  would  not  let 
me  sleep.  After  a  time  I  decided  that  it  wanted  water, 
and  I  started  out  in  search  of  some,  carrying  the  candle 
without  the  stand.  I  wandered  through  several  rooms, 
all  closed  and  dismantled,  before  I  found  a  small  lava- 
tory opening  off  a  billiard  room.  The  cat  lapped  stead- 
ily, and  I  filled  a  glass  to  take  back  with  me.  The 
candle  nickered  in  a  sickly  fashion  that  threatened 
to  leave  me  there  lost  in  the  wanderings  of  the  many 
hallways,  and  from  somewhere  there  came  an  occa- 
sional violent  puff  of  wind.  The  cat  stuck  by  my  feet, 
with  the  hair  on  its  back  raised  menacingly.  I  don't 
like  cats ;  there  is  something  psychic  about  them. 

Hotchkiss  was  still  asleep  when  I  got  back  to  the 
big  room.  I  moved  his  boots  back  from  the  fire,  and 
trimmed  the  candle.  Then,  with  sleep  gone  from  me, 
I  lay  back  on  my  divan  and  reflected  on  many  things : 
on  my  idiocy  in  coming ;  on  Alison  West,  and  the  fact 
that  only  a  week  before  she  had  been  a  guest  in  this 
very  house;  on  Richey  and  the  constraint  that  had 
come  between  us.  From  that  I  drifted  back  to  Alison, 
and  to  the  barrier  my  comparative  poverty  would  be. 

The  emptiness,  the  stillness  were  oppressive.  Once 
I  heard  footsteps  coming,  rhythmical  steps  that  neither 
hurried  nor  dragged,  and  seemed  to  mount  endless 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  LAURELS     195 

staircases  without  coming  any  closer.  I  realized  finally 
that  I  had  not  quite  turned  off  the  tap,  and  that  the 
lavatory,  which  I  had  circled  to  reach,  must  be  quite 
close. 

The  cat  lay  by  the  fire,  its  nose  on  its  folded  paws, 
content  in  the  warmth  and  companionship.  I  watched 
it  idly.  Now  and  then  the  green  wood  hissed  in  the 
fire,  but  the  cat  never  batted  an  eye.  Through  an  un- 
shuttered window  the  lightning  flashed.  Suddenly  the 
cat  looked  up.  It  lifted  its  head  and  stared  directly 
at  the  gallery  above.  Then  it  blinked,  and  stared  again. 
I  was  amused.  Not  until  it  had  got  up  on  its  feet,  eyes 
still  riveted  on  the  balcony,  tail  waving  at  the  tip,  the 
hair  on  its  back  a  bristling  brush,  did  I  glance  casually 
over  my  head. 

From  among  the  shadows  a  face  gazed  down  at  me, 
a  face  that  seemed  a  fitting  tenant  of  the  ghostly  room 
below.  I  saw  it  as  plainly  as  I  might  see  my  own  face 
in  a  mirror.  While  I  stared  at  it  with  horrified  eyes, 
the  apparition  faded.  The  rail  was  there,  the  Bokhara 
rug  still  swung  from  it,  but  the  gallery  was  empty. 

The  cat  threw  back  its  head  and  wailed. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER 

I  JUMPED  up  and  seized  the  fire  tongs.  The  cat's 
wail  had  roused  Hotchkiss,  who  was  wide-awake 
at  once.  He  took  in  my  offensive  attitude,  the  tongs, 
the  direction  of  my  gaze,  and  needed  nothing  more. 
As  he  picked  up  the  candle  and  darted  out  into  the 
hall,  I  followed  him.  He  made  directly  for  the  stair- 
case, and  part  way  up  he  turned  off  to  the  right  through 
a  small  door.  We  were  on  the  gallery  itself ;  below  us 
the  fire  gleamed  cheerfully,  the  cat  was  not  in  sight. 
There  was  no  sign  of  my  ghostly  visitant,  but  as  we 
stood  there  the  Bokhara  rug,  without  warning,  slid 
over  the  railing  and  fell  to  the  floor  below. 

"Man  or  woman?"  Hotchkiss  inquired  in  his  most 
professional  tone. 

"Neither— that  is,  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  notice 
anything  but  the  eyes,"  I  muttered.  "They  were  look- 
ing a  hole  in  me.  If  you'd  seen  that  cat  you  would 
realize  my  state  of  mind.  That  was  a  traditional 
graveyard  yowl." 

"I  don't  think  you  saw  anything  at  all,"  he  lied 
cheerfully.  "You  dozed  off,  and  the  rest  is  the  natural 
result  of  a  meal  on  a  buffet  car." 

Nevertheless,  he  examined  the  Bokhara  carefully 
when  we  went  down,  and  when  I  finally  went  to  sleep 
196 


HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER  197 

he  was  reading  the  only  book  in  sight — Elwell  on 
Bridge.  The  first  rays  of  daylight  were  coming  mistily 
into  the  room  when  he  roused  me.  He  had  his  finger 
on  his  lips,  and  he  whispered  sibilantly  while  I  tried 
to  draw  on  my  distorted  boots. 

"I  think  we  have  him,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "I've 
been  looking  around  some,  and  I  can  tell  you  this 
much.  Just  before  we  came  in  through  the  window 
last  night,  another  man  came.  Only — he  did  not  drop, 
as  you  did.  He  swung  over  to  the  stair  railing,  and 
then  down.  The  rail  is  scratched.  He  was  long  enough 
ahead  of  us  to  go  into  the  dining-room  and  get  a  de- 
canter out  of  the  sideboard.  He  poured  out  the  liquor 
into  a  glass,  left  the  decanter  there,  and  took  the  whisky 
into  the  library  across  the  hall.  Then — he  broke  into 
a  desk,  using  a  paper  knife  for  a  jimmy." 

"Good  Lord,  Hotchkiss,"  I  exclaimed ;  "why,  it  may 
have  been  Sullivan  himself!  Confound  your  theories 
— he's  getting  farther  away  every  minute." 

"It  was  Sullivan,"  Hotchkiss  returned  imperturb- 
ably.  "And  he  has  not  gone.  His  boots  are  by  the 
library  fire." 

"He  probably  had  a  dozen  pairs  where  he  could  get 
them,"  I  scoffed.  "And  while  you  and  I  sat  and  slept, 
the  very  man  we  want  to  get  our  hands  on  leered  at 
us  over  that  railing." 

"Softly,  softly,  my  friend,"  Hotchkiss  said,  as  I 
stamped  into  my  other  shoe.  "I  did  not  say  he  was 
gone.  Don't  jump  at  conclusions.  It  is  fatal  to  rea- 
soning. As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  didn't  relish  a  night 


198     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

on  the  mountains  any  more  than  we  did.  After  he 
had  unintentionally  frightened  you  almost  into  paral- 
ysis, what  would  my  gentleman  naturally  do?  Go  out 
in  the  storm  again?  Not  if  I  know  the  Alice-sit-by- 
the-fire  type.  He  went  up-stairs,  well  up  near  the  roof, 
locked  himself  in  and  went  to  bed." 

"And  he  is  there  now?" 

"He  is  there  now." 

We  had  no  weapons.  I  am  aware  that  the  traditional 
hero  is  always  armed,  and  that  Hotchkiss  as  the  low 
comedian  should  have  had  a  revolver  that  missed  fire. 
As  a  fact,  we  had  nothing  of  the  sort.  Hotchkiss  car- 
ried the  fire  tongs,  but  my  sense  of  humor  was  too 
strong  for  me ;  I  declined  the  poker. 

"All  we  want  is  a  little  peaceable  conversation  with 
him,"  I  demurred.  "We  can't  brain  him  first  and  con- 
verse with  him  afterward.  And  anyhow,  while  I  can't 
put  my  finger  on  the  place,  I  think  your  theory  is  weak. 
If  he  wouldn't  run  a  hundred  miles  through  fire  and 
water  to  get  away  from  us,  then  he  is  not  the  man  we 
want." 

Hotchkiss,  however,  was  certain.  He  had  found  the 
room  and  listened  outside  the  door  to  the  sleeper's 
heavy  breathing,  and  so  we  climbed  past  luxurious 
suites,  revealed  in  the  deepening  daylight,  past  long 
vistas  of  hall  and  boudoir.  And  we  were  both  badly 
winded  when  we  got  there.  It  was  a  tower  room, 
reached  by  narrow  stairs,  and  well  above  the  roof 
level.  Hotchkiss  was  glowing. 

"It  is  partly  good  luck,  but  not  all,"  he  panted  in  a 


HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER  199 

whisper.  "If  we  had  persisted  in  the  search  last  night, 
he  would  have  taken  alarm  and  fled.  Now — we  have 
him.  Are  you  ready?" 

He  gave  a  mighty  rap  at  the  door  with  the  fire  tongs, 
and  stood  expectant.  Certainly  he  was  right;  some 
one  moved  within. 

"Hello!  Hello  there!"  Hotchkiss  bawled.  "You 
might  as  well  come  out.  .We  won't  hurt  you,  if  you'll 
come  peaceably." 

"Tell  him  we  represent  the  law,"  I  prompted.  "That's 
the  customary  thing,  you  know." 

But  at  that  moment  a  bullet  came  squarely  through 
the  door  and  flattened  itself  with  a  sharp  pst  against 
the  wall  of  the  tower  staircase.  We  ducked  unani- 
mously, dropped  back  out  of  range,  and  Hotchkiss  re- 
taliated with  a  spirited  bang  at  the  door  with  the  tongs. 
This  brought  another  bullet.  It  was  a  ridiculous  situ- 
ation. Under  the  circumstances,  no  doubt,  we  should 
have  retired,  at  least  until  we  had  armed  ourselves,  but 
Hotchkiss  had  no  end  of  fighting  spirit,  and  as  for  me, 
my  blood  was  up. 

"Break  the  lock,"  I  suggested,  and  Hotchkiss,  stand- 
ing at  the  side,  out  of  range,  retaliated  for  every  bullet 
by  a  smashing  blow  with  the*  tongs.  The  shots  ceased 
after  a  half  dozen,  and  the  door  was  giving,  slowly, 
One  of  us  on  each  side  of  the  door,  we  were  ready  fo» 
almost  any  kind  of  desperate  resistance.  As  it  swung 
open  Hotchkiss  poised  the  tongs ;  I  stood,  bent  forward, 
my  arm  drawn  back  for  a  blow. 

Nothing  happened. 


200     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

There  was  not  a  sound.  Finally,  at  the  risk  of  losing 
an  eye  which  I  justly  value,  I  peered  around  and  into 
the  room.  There  was  no  desperado  there :  only  a  fresh- 
faced,  trembling-lipped  servant,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  with  a  quilt  around  her  shoulders  and  the 
empty  revolver  at  her  feet. 

We  were  victorious,  but  no  conquered  army  ever 
beat  such  a  retreat  as  ours  down  the  tower  stairs  and 
into  the  refuge  of  the  living-room.  There,  with  the 
door  closed,  sprawled  on  the  divan,  I  went  from  one 
spasm  of  mirth  into  another,  becoming  sane  at  intervals, 
and  suffering  relapse  again  every  time  I  saw  Hotchkiss' 
disgruntled  countenance.  He  was  pacing  the  room, 
the  tongs  still  in  his  hand,  his  mouth  pursed  with  irri- 
tation. Finally  he  stopped  in  front  of  me  and  com- 
pelled my  attention. 

"When  you  have  finished  cackling,"  he  said  with 
dignity,  "I  wish  to  justify  my  position.  Do  you  think 
the — er — young  woman  up-stairs  put  a  pair  of  number 
eight  boots  to  dry  in  the  library  last  night?  Do  you 
think  she  poured  the  whisky  out  of  that  decanter?" 

"They  have  been  known  to  do  it,"  I  put  in,  but  his 
eye  silenced  me. 

"Moreover,  if  she  had  been  the  person  who  peered 
at  you  over  the  gallery  railing  last  night,  don't  you 
suppose,  with  her — er — belligerent  disposition,  she 
could  have  filled  you  as  full  of  lead  as  a  window 
weight?" 

"I  do,"  I  assented.  "It  wasn't  Alice-sit-by-the-fire. 
I  grant  you  that.  Then  who  was  it  ?" 


HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER  201 

Hotchkiss  felt  certain  that  it  had  been  Sullivan,  but 
I  was  not  so  sure.  Why  would  he  have  crawled  like 
a  thief  into  his  own  house?  If  he  had  crossed  the 
park,  as  seemed  probable,  when  we  did,  he  had  not 
made  any  attempt  to  use  the  knocker.  I  gave  it  up 
finally,  and  made  an  effort  to  conciliate  the  young 
woman  in  the  tower. 

We  had  heard  no  sound  since  our  spectacular  en- 
trance into  her  room.  I  was  distinctly  uncomfortable 
as,  alone  this  time,  I  climbed  to  the  tower  staircase. 
Reasoning  from  before,  she  would  probably  throw  a 
chair  at  me.  I  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase 
and  called. 

"Hello  up  there,"  I  said,  in  as  debonnair  a  manner 
as  I  could  summon.  "Good  morning.  Wie  geht  es 
bei  ihnen?" 

No  reply. 

"Bon  jour,  mademoiselle,"  I  tried  again.  This  time 
there  was  a  movement  of  some  sort  from  above,  but 
nothing  fell  on  me. 

"I — we  want  to  apologize  for  rousing  you  so— er — 
unexpectedly  this  morning,"  I  went  on.  "The  fact  is, 
we  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  and  you — you  were  hard  to 
waken.  We  are  travelers,  lost  in  your  mountains,  and 
we  crave  a  breakfast  and  an  audience." 

She  came  to  the  door  then.  I  could  feel  that  she 
was  investigating  the  top  of  my  head  from  above.  "Is 
Mr.  Sullivan  with  you?"  she  asked.  It  was  the  first 
word  from  her,  and  she  was  not  sure  of  her  voice. 

"No.    We  are  alone.     If  you  will  come  down  and 


202     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

look  at  us  you  will  find  us  two  perfectly  harmless 
people,  whose  horse — curses  on  him — departed  without 
leave  last  night  and  left  us  at  your  gate." 

She  relaxed  somewhat  then  and  came  down  a  step 
or  two.  "I  was  afraid  I  had  killed  somebody,"  she 
said.  "The  housekeeper  left  yesterday,  and  the  other 
maids  went  with  her." 

When  she  saw  that  I  was  comparatively  young  and 
lacked  the  earmarks  of  the  highwayman,  she  was 
greatly  relieved.  She  was  inclined  to  fight  shy  of 
Hotchkiss,  however,  for  some  reason.  She  gave  us 
a  breakfast  of  a  sort,  for  there  was  little  in  the  house, 
and  afterward  we  telephoned  to  the  town  for  a  vehicle. 
While  Hotchkiss  examined  scratches  and  replaced  the 
Bokhara  rug,  I  engaged  Jennie  in  conversation. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  I  asked,  "who  is  managing  the 
estate  since  Mrs.  Curtis  was  killed  ?" 

"No  one,"  she  returned  shortly. 

"Has — any  member  of  the  family  been  here  since 
the  accident?" 

"No,  sir.  There  was  only  the  two,  and  some  think 
Mr.  Sullivan  was  killed  as  well  as  his  sister." 

"You  don't?" 

"No,"  with  conviction. 

"Why?" 

She  wheeled  on  me  with  quick  suspicion. 

"Are  you  a  detective?"  she  demanded. 

"No." 

"You  told  him  to  say  you  represented  the  law." 


HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER  203 

"I  am  a  lawyer.  Some  of  them  misrepresent  the 
law,  but  I — " 

She  broke  in  impatiently. 

"A  sheriffs  officer?" 

"No.  Look  here,  Jennie ;  I  am  all  that  I  should  be. 
You'll  have  to  believe  that.  And  I'm  in  a  bad  position 
through  no  fault  of  my  own.  I  want  you  to  answer 
some  questions.  If  you  will  help  me,  I  will  do  what 
I  can  for  you.  Do  you  live  near  here?" 

Her  chin  quivered.  It  was  the  first  sign  of  weak- 
ness she  had  shown. 

"My  home  is  in  Pittsburg,"  she  said,  "and  I  haven't 
enough  money  to  get  there.  They  hadn't  paid  any 
wages  for  two  months.  They  didn't  pay  anybody." 

"Very  well,"  I  returned.  "I'll  send  you  back  to 
Pittsburg,  Pullman  included,  if  you  will  tell  me  some 
things  I  want  to  know." 

She  agreed  eagerly.  Outside  the  window  Hotch- 
kiss  was  bending  over,  examining  footprints  in  the 
drive. 

"Now,"  I  began,  "there  has  been  a  Miss  West  stay- 
ing here?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Sullivan  was  attentive  to  her  ?" 

"Yes.  She  was  the  granddaughter  of  a  wealthy 
man  in  Pittsburg.  My  aunt  has  been  in  his  family  for 
twenty  years.  Mrs.  Curtis  wanted  her  brother  to  marry 
Miss  West." 

"Do  you  think  he  did  marry  her?"  I  could  not  keep 
the  excitement  out  of  my  voice. 


204      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"No.     There  were  reasons" — she  stopped  abruptly. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  family  ?  Are  they — 
were  they  New  Yorkers?" 

"They  came  from  somewhere  in  the  south.  I  have 
heard  Mrs.  Curtis  say  her  mother  was  a  Cuban.  I 
don't  know  much  about  them,  but  Mr.  Sullivan  had 
a  wicked  temper,  though  he  didn't  look  it.  Folks  say 
big,  light-haired  people  are  easy  going,  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve it,  sir." 

"How  long  was  Miss  West  here?" 

"Two  weeks." 

I  hesitated  about  further  questioning.  Critical  as 
my  position  was,  I  could  not  pry  deeper  into  Alison 
West's  affairs.  If  she  had  got  into  the  hands  of  ad- 
venturers, as  Sullivan  and  his  sister  appeared  to  have 
been,  she  was  safely  away  from  them  again.  But 
something  of  the  situation  in  the  car  Ontario  was 
forming  itself  in  my  mind:  the  incident  at  the  farm- 
house lacked  only  motive  to  be  complete.  Was  Sulli- 
van, after  all,  a  rascal  or  a  criminal?  Was  the  mur- 
derer Sullivan  or  Mrs.  Conway?  The  lady  or  the  tiger 
again. 

Jennie  was  speaking. 

"I  hope  Miss  West  was  not  hurt?"  she  asked.  "We 
liked  her,  all  of  us.  She  was  not  like  Mrs.  Curtis." 

I  wanted  to  say  that  she  was  not  like  anybody  in 
the  world.  Instead — "She  escaped  with  some  bruises," 
I  said. 

She  glanced  at  my  arm.     "You  were  on  the  train  ?" 

"Yes." 


HIS  WIFE'S  FATHER  205 

She  waited  for  more  questions,  but  none  coming, 
she  went  to  the  door.  Then  she  closed  it  softly  and 
came  back. 

"Mrs.  Curtis  is  dead?  You  are  sure  of  it?"  she 
asked. 

"She  was  killed  instantly,  I  believe.  The  body  was 
not  recovered.  But  I  have  reasons  for  believing  that 
Mr.  Sullivan  is  living." 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "I — I  think  he  was  here  the 
night  before  last.  That  is  why  I  went  to  the  tower 
room.  I  believe  he  would  kill  me  if  he  could."  As 
nearly  as  her  round  and  comely  face  could  express  it, 
Jennie's  expression  was  tragic  at  that  moment.  I  made 
a  quick  resolution,  and  acted  on  it  at  once. 

"You  are  not  entirely  frank  with  me,  Jennie,"  I 
protested.  "And  I  am  going  to  tell  you  more  than  I 
have.  We  are  talking  at  cross  purposes. 

"I  was  on  the  wrecked  train,  in  the  same  car  with 
Mrs.  Curtis,  Miss  West  and  Mr.  Sullivan.  During  the 
night  there  was  a  crime  committed  in  that  car  and 
Mr.  Sullivan  disappeared.  But  he  left  behind  him  a 
chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  that  involved  me  com- 
pletely, so  that  I  may,  at  any  time,  be  arrested." 

Apparently  she  did  not  comprehend  for  a  moment. 
Then,  as  if  the  meaning  of  my  words  had  just  dawned 
on  her,  she  looked  up  and  gasped : 

"You  mean — Mr.  Sullivan  committed  the  crime  him- 
self?" 

"I  think  he  did." 

"What  was  it?" 


206      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"It  was  murder,"  I  said  deliberately. 

Her  hands  clenched  involuntarily,  and  she  shrank 
back.  "A  woman?"  She  could  scarcely  form  her 
words. 

"No,  a  man;  a  Mr.  Simon  Harrington,  of  Pitts- 
burg." 

Her  effort  to  retain  her  self-control  was  pitiful. 
Then  she  broke  down  and  cried,  her  head  on  the  back 
of  a  tall  chair. 

"It  was  my  fault,"  she  said  wretchedly,  "my  fault, 
I  should  not  have  sent  them  the  word." 

After  a  few  minutes  she  grew  quiet.  She  seemed 
to  hestitate  over  something,  and  finally  determined  to 
say  it. 

"You  will  understand  better,  sir,  when  I  say  that 
I  was  raised  in  the  Harrington  family.  Mr.  Harring- 
ton was  Mr.  Sullivan's  wife's  father  I" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AT   THE  STATION 

SO  it  had  been  the  tiger,  not  the  lady!  Well,  I  had 
held  to  that  theory  all  through.  Jennie  suddenly 
became  a  valuable  person;  if  necessary  she  could  prove 
the  connection  between  Sullivan  and  the  murdered 
man,  and  show  a  motive  for  the  crime.  I  was 
triumphant  when  Hotchkiss  came  in.  When  the  girl 
had  produced  a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  I 
had  recognized  the  bronze-haired  girl  of  the  train,  we 
were  both  well  satisfied — which  goes  to  prove  the 
ephemeral  nature  of  most  human  contentments. 

Jennie  either  had  nothing  more  to  say,  or  feared  she 
had  said  too  much.  She  was  evidently  uneasy  before 
Hotchkiss.  I  told  her  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  recover- 
ing in  a  Baltimore  hospital,  but  she  already  knew  it, 
from  some  source,  and  merely  nodded.  She  made  a 
few  preparations  for  leaving,  while  Hotchkiss  and  I 
compared  notes,  and  then,  with  the  cat  in  her  arms, 
she  climbed  into  the  trap  from  the  town.  I  sat  with 
her,  and  on  the  way  down  she  told  me  a  little,  not 
much. 

"If  you  see  Mrs.  Sullivan,"  she  advised,  "and  she  is 
conscious,  she  probably  thinks  that  both  her  husband 
and  her  father  were  killed  in  the  wreck.  She  will  be  in 
a  bad  way,  sir." 

207 


208     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"You  mean  that  she — still  cares  about  her  hus- 
band?" 

The  cat  crawled  over  on  to  my  knee,  and  rubbed  its 
bead  against  my  hand  invitingly.  Jennie  stared  at  the 
undulating  line  of  the  mountain  crests,  a  colossal  sun 
against  a  blue  ocean  of  sky.  "Yes,  she  cares,"  she 
said  softly.  "Women  are  made  like  that.  They  say 
they  are  cats,  but  Peter  there  in  your  lap  wouldn't  come 
back  and  lick  your  hand  if  you  kicked  him.  If — if 
you  have  to  tell  her  the  truth,  be  as  gentle  as  you  can, 
sir.  She  has  been  good  to  me — that's  why  I  have 
played  the  spy  here  all  summer.  It's  a  thankless  thing, 
spying  on  people." 

"It  is  that,"  I  agreed  soberly. 

Hotchkiss  and  I  arrived  in  Washington  late  that  eve- 
ning, and,  rather  than  arouse  the  household,  I  went  to 
the  club.  I  was  at  the  office  early  the  next  morning 
and  admitted  myself.  McKnight  rarely  appeared  be- 
fore half  after  ten,  and  our  modest  office  force  some 
time  after  nine.  I  looked  over  my  previous  day's  mail 
and  waited,  with  such  patience  as  I  possessed,  for  Mc- 
Knight. In  the  interval  I  called  up  Mrs.  Klopton  and 
announced  that  I  would  dine  at  home  that  night.  What 
my  household  subsists  on  during  my  numerous  ab- 
sences I  have  never  discovered.  Tea,  probably,  and 
crackers.  Diligent  search  when  I  have  made  a  mid- 
night arrival,  never  reveals  anything  more  substantial. 
Possibly  I  imagine  it,  but  the  announcement  that  I 
am  about  to  make  a  journey  always  seems  to  create 
a  general  atmosphere  of  depression  throughout  the 


AT  THE  STATION 209 

house,  as  though  Euphemia  and  Eliza,  and  Thomas,  the 
stableman,  were  already  subsisting,  in  imagination,  on 
Mrs.  Klopton's  meager  fare. 

So  I  called  her  up  and  announced  my  arrival,  There 
was  something  unusual  in  her  tone,  as  though  her 
throat  was  tense  with  indignation.  Always  shrill,  her 
elderly  voice  rasped  my  ear  painfully  through  the  re- 
ceiver. 

"I  have  changed  the  butcher,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  she 
announced  portentously.  "The  last  roast  was  a  pound 
short,  and  his  mutton-chops — any  self-respecting  sheep 
would  refuse  to  acknowledge  them." 

As  I  said  before,  I  can  always  tell  from  the  voice  in 
which  Mrs.  Klopton  conveys  the  most  indifferent  mat- 
ters, if  something  of  real  significance  has  occurred. 
Also,  through  long  habit,  I  have  learned  how  quickest 
to  bring  her  to  the  point. 

"You  are  pessimistic  this  morning,"  I  returned. 
"What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Klopton?  You  haven't  used 
that  tone  since  Euphemia  baked  a  pie  for  the  iceman. 
What  is  it  now  ?  Somebody  poison  the  dog  ?" 

She  cleared  her  throat. 

"The  house  has  been  broken  into,  Mr.  Lawrence," 
she  said.  "I  have  lived  in  the  best  families,  and  never 
have  I  stood  by  and  seen  what  I  saw  yesterday — every 
bureau  drawer  opened,  and  my — my  most  sacred  be- 
longings— "  she  choked. 

"Did  you  notify  the  police?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"Police!"  she  sniffed.  "Police!  It  was  the  police 
that  did  it — two  detectives  with  a  search  warrant.  I-^» 


210     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  wouldn't  dare  tell  you  over  the  telephone  what  one 
of  them  said  when  he  found  the  whisky  and  rock  candy 
for  my  cough." 

"Did  they  take  anything?"  I  demanded,  every  nerve 
on  edge. 

"They  took  the  cough  medicine,"  she  returned  indig- 
nantly, "and  they  said — " 

"Confound  the  cough  medicine!"  I  was  frantic. 
"Did  they  take  anything  else?  Were  they  in  my  dress- 
ing-room?" 

"Yes.  I  threatened  to  sue  them,  and  I  told  them 
what  you  would  do  when  you  came  back.  But  they 
wouldn't  listen.  They  took  away  that  black  sealskin 
bag  you  brought  home  from  Pittsburg  with  you !" 

I  knew  then  that  my  hours  of  freedom  were  num- 
bered. To  have  found  Sullivan  and  then,  in  support  of 
my  case  against  him,  to  have  produced  the  bag,  minus 
the  bit  of  chain,  had  been  my  intention.  But  the 
police  had  the  bag,  and,  beyond  knowing  something  of 
Sullivan's  history,  I  was  practically  no  nearer  his  dis- 
covery than  before.  Hotchkiss  hoped  he  had  his  man 
in  the  house  off  Washington  Circle,  but  on  the  very 
night  he  had  seen  him  Jennie  claimed  that  Sullivan  had 
tried  to  enter  the  Laurels.  Then — suppose  we  found 
Sullivan  and  proved  the  satchel  and  its  contents  his? 
Since  the  police  had  the  bit  of  chain  it  might  mean 
involving  Alison  in  the  story.  I  sat  down  and  buried 
my  face  in  my  hands.  There  was  no  escape.  I  figured 
it  out  despondingly. 

Against  me  was  the  evidence  of  the  survivors  of  the 


AT  THE  STATION  211 

Ontario  that  I  had  been  accused  of  the  murder  at  the 
time.  There  had  been  blood-stains  on  my  pillow  and  a 
hidden  dagger.  Into  the  bargain,  in  my  possession  had 
been  found  a  traveling-bag  containing  the  dead  man's 
pocket-book. 

In  my  favor  was  McKnight's  theory  against  Mrs. 
Conway.  She  had  a  motive  for  wishing  to  secure  the 
notes,  she  believed  I  was  in  lower  ten,  and  she  had  col- 
lapsed at  the  discovery  of  the  crime  in  the  morning. 

Against  both  of  these  theories,  I  accuse  a  purely 
chimerical  person  named  Sullivan,  who  was  not  seen 
by  any  of  the  survivors — save  one,  Alison,  whom  I 
could  not  bring  into  the  case.  I  could  find  a  motive 
for  his  murdering  his  father-in-law,  whom  he  hated, 
but  again — I  would  have  to  drag  in  the  girl. 

And  not  one  of  the  theories  explained  the  telegram 
and  the  broken  necklace. 

Outside  the  office  force  was  arriving.  They  were 
comfortably  ignorant  of  my  presence,  and  over  the 
transom  floated  scraps  of  dialogue  and  the  stenogra- 
pher's gurgling  laugh.  McKnight  had  a  relative,  who 
was  reading  law  with  him,  in  the  intervals  between 
calling  up  the  young  women  of  his  acquaintance.  He 
came  in  singing,  and  the  office  boy  joined  in  with  the 
uncertainty  of  voice  of  fifteen.  I  smiled  grimly.  I 
was  too  busy  with  my  own  troubles  to  find  any  joy  in 
opening  the  door  and  startling  them  into  silence.  I 
even  heard,  without  resentment,  Blobs  of  the  uncertain 
voice  inquire  when  "Blake"  would  be  back. 

I  hoped  McKnight  would  arrive  before  the  arrest 


212     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

occurred.  There  were  many  things  to  arrange.  But 
when  at  last,  impatient  of  his  delay,  I  telephoned,  I 
found  he  had  been  gone  for  more  than  an  hour. 
Clearly  he  was  not  coming  directly  to  the  office,  and 
with  such  resignation  as  I  could  muster  I  paced  the 
floor  and  waited. 

I  felt  more  alone  than  I  have  ever  felt  in  my  life. 
"Born  an  orphan,"  as  Richey  said,  I  had  made  my  own 
way,  carved  out  myself  such  success  as  had  been  mine. 
I  had  built  up  my  house  of  life  on  the  props  of  law  and 
order,  and  now  some  unknown  hand  had  withdrawn 
the  supports,  and  I  stood  among  ruins. 

I  suppose  it  is  the  maternal  in  a  woman  that  makes 
a  man  turn  to  her  when  everything  else  fails.  The 
eternal  boy  in  him  goes  to  have  his  wounded  pride 
bandaged,  his  tattered  self-respect  repaired.  If  he 
loves  the  woman,  he  wants  her  to  kiss  the  hurt. 

The  longing  to  see  Alison,  always  with  me,  was 
stronger  than  I  was  that  morning.  It  might  be  that  I 
would  not  see  her  again.  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  her 
save  one  thing,  and  that,  under  the  cloud  that  hung 
over  me,  I  did  not  dare  to  say.  But  I  wanted  to  see 
her,  to  touch  her  hand — as  only  a  lonely  man  can 
crave  it,  I  wanted  the  comfort  of  her,  the  peace  that 
lay  in  her  presence.  And  so,  with  every  step  outside 
the  door  a  threat,  I  telephoned  to  her. 

She  was  gone !  The  disappointment  was  great,  for 
my  need  was  great.  In  a  fury  of  revolt  against  the 
scheme  of  things,  I  heard  that  she  had  started  home 


AT  THE  STATION 213 

to  Richmond — but  that  she  might  still  be  caught  at  the 
station. 

To  see  her  had  by  that  time  become  an  obsession. 
I  picked  up  my  hat,  threw  open  the  door,  and,  oblivious 
of  the  shock  to  the  office  force  of  my  presence,  fol- 
lowed so  immediately  by  my  exit,  I  dashed  out  to  the 
elevator.  As  I  went  down  in  one  cage  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Johnson  and  two  other  men  going  up  in 
the  next.  I  hardly  gave  them  a  thought.  There  was 
no  hansom  in  sight,  and  I  jumped  on  a  passing  car. 
Let  come  what  might,  arrest,  prison,  disgrace,  I  was 
going  to  see  Alison. 

I  saw  her.  I  flung  into  the  station,  saw  that  it  was 
empty — empty,  for  she  was  not  there.  Then  I  hurried 
back  to  the  gates.  She  was  there,  a  familiar  figure  in 
blue,  the  very  gown  in  which  I  always  thought  of 
her,  the  one  she  had  worn  when,  Heaven  help  me — I 
had  kissed  her,  at  the  Carter  farm.  And  she  was  not 
alone.  Bending  over  her,  talking  earnestly,  with  all 
his  boyish  heart  in  his  face,  was  Richey. 

They  did  not  see  me,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  After 
all,  it  had  been  McKnight's  game  first.  I  turned  on  my 
heel  and  made  my  way  blindly  out  of  the  station.  Be- 
fore I  lost  them  I  turned  once  and  looked  toward  them, 
standing  apart  from  the  crowd,  absorbed  in  each  other. 
They  were  the  only  two  people  on  earth  that  I  cared 
about,  and  I  left  them  there  together.  Then  I  went 
back  miserably  to  the  office  and  awaited  arrest. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ON  TO  RICHMOND 

STRANGELY  enough,  I  was  not  disturbed  that 
day.  McKnight  did  not  appear  at  all.  I  sat  at 
my  desk  and  transacted  routine  business  all  afternoon, 
working  with  feverish  energy.  Like  a  man  on  the 
verge  of  a  critical  illness  or  a  hazardous  journey,  I 
cleared  up  my  correspondence,  paid  bills  until  I  had 
writer's  cramp  from  signing  checks,  read  over  my 
will,  and  paid  up  my  life  insurance,  made  to  the  benefit 
of  an  elderly  sister  of  my  mother's. 

I  no  longer  dreaded  arrest.  After  that  morning  in 
the  station,  I  felt  that  anything  would  be  a  relief  from 
the  tension.  I  went  home  with  perfect  openness,  court- 
ing the  warrant  that  I  knew  was  waiting,  but  I  was 
not  molested.  The  delay  puzzled  me.  The  early  part 
of  the  evening  was  uneventful.  I  read  until  late, 
with  occasional  lapses,  when  my  book  lay  at  my  elbow, 
and  I  smoked  and  thought.  Mrs.  Klopton  closed  the 
house  with  ostentatious  caution,  about  eleven,  and 
hung  around  waiting  to  enlarge  on  the  outrageousness 
of  the  police  search.  I  did  not  encourage  her. 

"One  would  think,"  she  concluded  pompously,  one 
foot  in  the  hall,  "that  you  were  something  you  oughtn't 
to  be,  Mr.  Lawrence.  They  acted  as  though  you  had 
committed  a  crime." 

214 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  215 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  didn't,  Mrs.  Klopton,"  I  said 
wearily.  "Somebody  did,  the  general  verdict  seems  to 
point  my  way." 

She  stared  at  me  in  speechless  indignation.  Then 
she  flounced  out.  She  came  back  once  to  say  that  the 
paper  predicted  cooler  weather,  and  that  she  had  put 
a  blanket  on  my  bed,  but,  to  her  disappointment,  I 
refused  to  reopen  the  subject. 

At  half  past  eleven  McKnight  and  Hotchkiss  came 
in.  Richey  has  a  habit  of  stopping  his  car  in  front  of 
the  house  and  honking  until  some  one  comes  out.  He 
has  a  code  of  signals  with  the  horn,  which  I  never 
remember.  Two  long  and  a  short  blast  mean,  I  be- 
lieve, "Send  out  a  box  of  cigarettes,"  and  six  short 
blasts,  which  sound  like  a  police  call,  mean  "Can  you 
lend  me  some  money?"  To-night  I  knew  something 
was  up,  for  he  got  out  and  rang  the  door-bell  like  a 
Christian. 

They  came  into  the  library,  and  Hotchkiss  wiped 
his  collar  until  it  gleamed.  McKnight  was  aggres- 
sively cheerful. 

"Not  pinched  yet!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  luck!  You  always  were  a  fortunate 
devil,  Lawrence." 

"Yes,"  I  assented,  with  some  bitterness,  "I  hardly 
know  how  to  contain  myself  for  joy  sometimes.  I 
suppose  you  know" — to  Hotchkiss — "that  the  police 
were  here  while  we  were  at  Cresson,  and  that  they 
found  the  bag  that  I  brought  from  the  wreck  ?" 

"Things  are  coming  to  a  head,"  he  said  thoughtfully 


216      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"unless  a  little  plan  that  I  have  in  mind — "  he  hesitated. 

"I  hope  so;  I  am  pretty  nearly  desperate,"  I  said 
doggedly.  "I've  got  a  mental  toothache,  and  the 
sooner  it's  pulled  the  better." 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  McKnight,  "think  of  the  disgrace 
to  the  firm  if  its  senior  member  goes  up  for  life,  or — " 
he  twisted  his  handkerchief  into  a  noose,  and  went 
through  an  elaborate  pantomime. 

"Although  jail  isn't  so  bad,  anyhow,"  he  finished, 
"there  are  fellows  that  get  the  habit  and  keep  going 
back  and  going  back."  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  I 
fancied  his  cheerfulness  was  strained.  Hotchkiss  was 
nervously  fumbling  my  book. 

"Did  you  ever  read  The  Purloined  Letter,  Mr  Blake- 
ley  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Probably,  years  ago,"  I  said.    "Poe,  isn't  it?" 

He  was  choked  at  my  indifference.  "It  is  a  master- 
piece," he  said,  with  enthusiasm.  "I  re-read  it  to-day." 

"And  what  happened?" 

"Then  I  inspected  the  rooms  in  the  house  off  Wash- 
ington Circle.  I — I  made  some  discoveries,  Mr:  Blake- 
ley.  For  one  thing,  our  man  there  is  left-handed."  He 
looked  around  for  our  approval.  "There  was  a  small 
cushion  on  the  dresser,  and  the  scarf  pins  in  it  had  been 
stuck  in  with  the  left  hand." 

"Somebody  may  have  twisted  the  cushion,"  I  ob- 
jected, but  he  looked  hurt,  and  I  desisted. 

"There  is  only  one  discrepancy,"  he  admitted,  "but 
it  troubles  me.  According  to  Mrs.  Carter,  at  the  farm- 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  217 

house,  our  man  wore  gaudy  pajamas,  while  I  found 
here  only  the  most  severely  plain  night-shirts." 

"Any  buttons  off?"  McKnight  inquired,  looking 
again  at  his  watch. 

"The  buttons  were  there,"  the  amateur  detective 
answered  gravely,  "but  the  buttonhole  next  the  top 
one  was  torn  through." 

McKnight  winked  at  me  furtively. 

"I  am  convinced  of  one  thing,"  Hotchkiss  went  on, 
clearing  his  throat,  "the  papers  are  not  in  that  room. 
Either  he  carries  them  with  him,  or  he  has  sold  them." 

A  sound  on  the  street  made  both  my  visitors  listen 
sharply.  Whatever  it  was  it  passed  on,  however.  I  was 
growing  curious  and  the  restraint  was  telling  on  Mc- 
Knight. He  has  no  talent  for  secrecy.  In  the  interval 
we  discussed  the  strange  occurrence  at  Cresson,  which 
lost  nothing  by  Hotchkiss'  dry  narration. 

"And  so,"  he  concluded,  "the  woman  in  the  Balti- 
more hospital  is  the  wife  of  Henry  Sullivan  and  the 
daughter  of  the  man  he  murdered.  No  wonder  he 
collapsed  when  he  heard  of  the  wreck." 

"Joy,  probably,"  McKnight  put  in.  "Is  that  clock 
right,  Lawrence  ?  Never  mind,  it  doesn't  matter.  By 
the  way,  Mrs.  Conway  dropped  in  the  office  yesterday, 
while  you  were  away." 

"What!"    I  sprang  from  my  chair. 

"Sure  thing.  Said  she  had  heard  great  things  of 
us,  and  wanted  us  to  handle  her  case  against  the  rail- 
road." 


218     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"I  would  like  to  know  what  she  is  driving  at,"  I  re- 
flected. "Is  she  trying  to  reach  me  through  you?" 

Richey's  flippancy  is  often  a  cloak  for  deeper  feel- 
ing. He  dropped  it  now.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "she's  after 
the  notes,  of  course.  And  I'll  tell  you  I  felt  like  a 
poltroon — whatever  that  may  be — when  I  turned  her 
down.  She  stood  by  the  door  with  her  face  white, 
and  told  me  contemptuously  that  I  could  save  you  from 
a  murder  charge  and  wouldn't  do  it.  She  made  me  feel 
like  a  cur.  I  was  just  as  guilty  as  if  I  could  have 
obliged  her.  She  hinted  that  there  were  reasons  and 
she  laid  my  attitude  to  beastly  motives." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said,  as  easily  as  I  could.  Hotchkiss 
had  gone  to  the  window.  "She  was  excited.  There 
are  no  'reasons,'  whatever  she  means." 

Richey  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "We've  been 
together  too  long  to  let  any  'reasons'  or  'unreasons' 
come  between  us,  old  man,"  he  said,  not  very  steadily. 

Hotchkiss,  who  had  been  silent,  here  came  forward 
in  his  most  impressive  manner.  He  put  his  hands 
under  his  coat-tails  and  coughed. 

"Mr.  Blakeley,"  he  began,  "by  Mr.  McKnight's  ad- 
vice we  have  arranged  a  little  interview  here  to-night. 
If  all  has  gone  as  I  planned,  Mr.  Henry  Pinckney 
Sullivan  is  by  this  time  under  arrest.  Within  a  very 
few  minutes — he  will  be  here." 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  before  he  was  locked  up," 
Richey  explained.  "He's  clever  enough  to  be  worth 
knowing,  and,  besides,  I'm  not  so  cocksure  of  his  guilt 
as  our  friend  the  Patch  on  the  Seat  of  Government 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  219 

No  murderer  worthy  of  the  name  needs  six  different 
motives  for  the  same  crime,  beginning  with  robbery, 
and  ending  with  an  unpleasant  father-in-law." 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  while.  McKnight  stationed 
himself  at  a  window,  and  Hotchkiss  paced  the  floor 
expectantly.  "It's  a  great  day  for  modern  detective 
methods,"  he  chirruped.  "While  the  police  have  been 
guarding  houses  and  standing  with  their  mouths  open 
waiting  for  clues  to  fall  in  and  choke  them,  we  have 
pieced  together,  bit  by  bit,  a  fabric — " 

The  door-bell  rang,  followed  immediately  by  sounds 
of  footsteps  in  the  hall.  McKnight  threw  the  door 
open,  and  Hotchkiss,  raised  on  his  toes,  flung  out 
his  arm  in  a  gesture  of  superb  eloquence. 

"Behold — your  man !"  he  declaimed. 

Through  the  open  doorway  came  a  tall,  blond  fel- 
low, clad  in  light  gray,  wearing  tan  shoes,  and  fol- 
lowed closely  by  an  officer. 

"I  brought  him  here  as  you  suggested,  Mr.  Mc- 
Knight," said  the  constable. 

But  McKnight  was  doubled  over  the  library  table 
in  silent  convulsions  of  mirth,  and  I  was  almost  as 
bad.  Little  Hotchkiss  stood  up,  his  important  attitude 
finally  changing  to  one  of  chagrin,  while  the  blond 
man  ceased  to  look  angry,  and  became  sheepish. 

It  was  Stuart,  our  confidential  clerk  for  the  last 
half  dozen  years! 

McKnight  sat  up  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"Stuart,"  he  said  sternly,  "there  are  two  very  seri- 
ous things  we  have  learned  about  you.  First,  you  jab 


220     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

your  scarf  pins  into  your  cushion  with  your  left  hand, 
which  is  most  reprehensible;  second,  you  wear — er — 
night-shirts,  instead  of  pajamas.  Worse  than  that, 
perhaps,  we  find  that  one  of  them  has  a  buttonhole  torn 
out  at  the  neck." 

Stuart  was  bewildered.  He  looked  from  McKnight 
to  me,  and  then  at  the  crestfallen  Hotchkiss. 

"I  haven't  any  idea  what  it's  all  about,"  he  said. 
"I  was  arrested  as  I  reached  my  boarding-house  to- 
night, after  the  theater,  and  brought  directly  here.  I 
told  the  officer  it  was  a  mistake." 

Poor  Hotchkiss  tried  bravely  to  justify  the  fiasco. 

"You  can  not  deny,"  he  contended,  "that  Mr.  An- 
drew Bronson  followed  you  to  your  rooms  last  Mon- 
day evening." 

Stuart  looked  at  us  and  flushed. 

"No,  I  don't  deny  it,"  he  said,  "but  there  was  noth- 
ing criminal  about  it,  on  my  part,  at  least.  Mr.  Bronson 
has  been  trying  to  induce  me  to  secure  the  forged 
notes  for  him.  But  I  did  not  even  know  where  they 
were." 

"And  you  were  not  on  the  wrecked  Washington 
Flier  ?"  persisted  Hotchkiss.  But  McKnight  interfered. 

"There  is  no  use  trying  to  put  the  other  man's 
identity  on  Stuart,  Mr.  Hotchkiss,"  he  protested.  "He 
has  been  our  confidentinal  clerk  for  six  years,  and  has 
not  been  away  from  the  office  a  day  for  a  year.  I  am 
afraid  that  the  beautiful  fabric  we  have  pieced  out  of 
all  these  scraps  is  going  to  be  a  crazy  quilt."  His  tone 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  221 

was  facetious,  but  I  could  detect  the  undercurrrent  of 
real  disappointment. 

I  paid  the  constable  for  his  trouble,  and  he  departed. 
Stuart,  still  indignant,  left  to  go  back  to  Washington 
Circle.  He  shook  hands  with  McKnight  and  myself 
magnanimously,  but  he  hurled  a  look  of  utter  hatred 
at  Hotchkiss,  sunk  crestfallen  in  his  chair. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  McKnight  dryly,  "we're 
exactly  as  far  along  as  we  were  the  day  we  met  at 
the  Carter  place.  We're  not  a  step  nearer  to  finding 
our  man." 

"We  have  one  thing  that  may  be  of  value,"  I  sug- 
gested. "He  is  the  husband  of  a  bronze-haired  woman 
at  Van  Kirk's  hospital,  and  it  is  just  possible  we  may 
trace  him  through  her.  I  hope  we  are  not  going  to 
lose  your  valuable  co-operation,  Mr.  Hotchkiss?"  I 
asked. 

He  roused  at  that  to  feeble  interest.  "I — oh,  of 
course  not,  if  you  still  care  to  have  me,  I — I  was  won- 
dering about — the  man  who  just  went  out,  Stuart, 
you  say?  I — told  his  landlady  to-night  that  he 
wouldn't  need  the  room  again.  I  hope  she  hasn't 
rented  it  to  somebody  else." 

We  cheered  him  as  best  we  could,  and  I  suggested 
that  we  go  to  Baltimore  the  next  day  and  try  to  find 
the  real  Sullivan  through  his  wife.  He  left  sometime 
after  midnight,  and  Richey  and  I  were  alone. 

He  drew  a  chair  near  the  lamp  and  lighted  a  ciga- 
rette, and  for  a  time  we  were  silent.  I  was  in  the 
shadow,  and  I  sat  back  and  watched  him.  It  was  not 


222      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

surprising,  I  thought,  that  she  cared  for  him :  women 
had  always  loved  him,  perhaps  because  he  always  loved 
them.  There  was  no  disloyalty  in  the  thought :  it  was 
the  lad's  nature  to  give  and  crave  affection.  Only — I 
was  different  I  had  never  really  cared  about  a  girl 
before,  and  my  life  had  been  singularly  loveless.  I 
had  fought  a  lonely  battle  always.  Once  before,  in 
college,  we  had  both  laid  ourselves  and  our  callow  de- 
votions at  the  feet  of  the  same  girl.  Her  name  was 
Dorothy — I  had  forgotten  the  rest — but  I  remembered 
the  sequel.  In  a  spirit  of  quixotic  youth  I  had  relin- 
quished my  claim  in  favor  of  Richey  and  had  gone 
cheerfully  on  my  way,  elevated  by  my  heroic  sacrifice 
to  a  somber,  white-hot  martyrdom.  As  is  often  the 
case,  McKnight's  first  words  showed  our  parallel  lines 
of  thought. 

"I  say,  Lollie,"  he  asked,  "do  you  remember  Doro- 
thy Browne?"  Browne,  that  was  it! 

"Dorothy  Browne?"  I  repeated.  "Oh — why  yes,  I 
recall  her  now.  Why?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said.  "I  was  thinking  about  her. 
That's  all.  You  remember  you  were  crazy  about  her, 
and  dropped  back  because  she  preferred  me  ?" 

"I  got  out,"  I  said  with  dignity,  "because  you  de- 
clared you  would  shoot  yourself  if  she  didn't  go  with 
you  to  something  or  other !" 

"Oh,  why  yes,  I  recall  now!"  he  mimicked.  He 
tossed  his  cigarette  in  the  general  direction  of  the 
hearth  and  got  up.  We  were  both  a  little  conscious, 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  223 

and  he  stood  with  his  back  to  me,  fingering  a  Japanese 
vase  on  the  mantel. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  began,  turning  the  vase  around, 
"that,  if  you  feel  pretty  well  again,  and — and  ready  to 
take  hold,  that  I  should  like  to  go  away  for  a  week 
or  so.  Things  are  fairly  well  cleaned  up  at  the  office." 

"Do  you  mean — you  are  going  to  Richmond?"  I 
asked,  after  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause.  He  turned 
and  faced  me,  with  his  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"No.  That's  off,  Lollie.  The  Sieberts  are  going 
for  a  week's  cruise  along  the  coast.  I — the  hot  weather 
has  played  hob  with  me  and  the  cruise  means  seven 
days'  breeze  and  bridge." 

I  lighted  a  cigarette  and  offered  him  the  box,  but  he 
refused.  He  was  looking  haggard  and  suddenly  tired. 
I  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say,  and  neither  could 
he,  evidently.  The  matter  between  us  lay  too  deep  for 
speech. 

"How's  Candida?"  he  asked. 

"Martin  says  a  month,  and  she  will  be  all  right,"  I 
returned,  in  the  same  tone.  He  picked  up  his  hat,  but 
he  had  something  more  to  say.  He  blurted  it  out, 
finally,  half  way  to  the  door. 

"The  Seiberts  are  not  going  for  a  couple  of  days," 
he  said,  "and  if  you  want  a  day  or  so  off  to  go  down 
to  Richmond  yourself — " 

"Perhaps  I  shall,"  I  returned,  as  indifferently  as  I 
could.  "Not  going  yet,  are  you?" 

"Yes.    It  is  late."  He  drew  in  his  breath  as  if  he  had 


224     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

something  more  to  say,  but  the  impulse  passed.  "Well, 
good  night,"  he  said  from  the  doorway. 

"Good  night,  old  man." 

The  next  moment  the  outer  door  slammed  and  I 
heard  the  engine  of  the  Cannonball  throbbing  in  the 
street.  Then  the  quiet  settled  down  around  me  again, 
and  there  in  the  lamplight  I  dreamed  dreams.  I  was 
going  to  see  her. 

Suddenly  the  idea  of  being  shut  away,  even  tempo- 
rarily, from  so  great  ,and  wonderful  a  world  became 
intolerable.  The  possibility  of  arrest  before  I  could  get 
to  Richmond  was  hideous,  the  night  without  end. 

I  made  my  escape  the  next  morning  through  the 
stable  back  of  the  house,  and  then,  by  devious  dark  and 
winding  ways,  to  the  office.  There,  after  a  conference 
with  Blobs,  whose  features  fairly  jerked  with  excite- 
ment, I  double-locked  the  door  of  my  private  office 
and  finished  off  some  imperative  work.  By  ten  o'clock 
I  was  free,  and  for  the  twentieth  time  I  consulted  my 
train  schedule.  At  five  minutes  after  ten,  with  Mc- 
Knight  not  yet  in  sight,  Blobs  knocked  at  the  door,  the 
double  rap  we  had  agreed  upon,  and  on  being  admitted 
slipped  in  and  quietly  closed  the  door  behind  him.  His 
eyes  were  glistening  with  excitement,  and  a  purple  dab 
of  typewriter  ink  gave  him  a  peculiarly  villainous  and 
stealthy  expression. 

"They're  here,"  he  said,  "two  of  'em,  and  that  crazy 
Stuart  wasn't  on,  and  said  you  were  somewhere  in 
the  building." 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  225 

A  door  slammed  outside,  followed  by  steps  on  the 
uncarpeted  outer  office. 

"This  way,"  said  Blobs,  in  a  husky  undertone,  and, 
darting  into  a  lavatory,  threw  open  a  door  that  I  had 
always  supposed  locked.  Thence  into  a  back  hall  piled 
high  with  boxes  and  past  the  presses  of  a  bookbindery 
;o  the  freight  elevator. 

Greatly  to  Blobs'  disappointment,  there  was  no  pur- 
suit. I  was  exhilarated  but  out  of  breath  when  we 
emerged  into  an  alleyway,  and  the  sharp  daylight  shone 
on  Blobs'  excited  face. 

"Great  sport,  isn't  it?  I  panted,  dropping  a  dollar 
into  his  palm,  inked  to  correspond  with  his  face. 
"Regular  walk-away  in  the  hundred-yard  dash." 

"Gimme  two  dollars  more  and  I'll  drop  'em  down 
the  elevator  shaft,"  he  suggested  ferociously.  I  left 
him  there  with  his  blood-thirsty  schemes,  and  started 
for  the  station.  I  had  a  tendency  to  look  behind  me 
now  and  then,  but  I  reached  the  station  unnoticed. 
The  afternoon  was  hot,  the  train  rolled  slowly  along, 
stopping  to  pant  at  sweltering  stations,  from  whose 
roofs  the  heat  rose  in  waves.  But  I  noticed  these 
things  objectively,  not  subjectively,  for  at  the  end  of 
the  journey  was  a  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  dark  brown 
hair,  hair  that  could — had  I  not  seen  it? — hang  loose 
in  bewitching  tangles  or  be  twisted  into  little  coils  of 
delight. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS 

I  TELEPHONED  as  soon  as  I  reached  my  hotel, 
and  I  had  not  known  how  much  I  had  hoped  from 
seeing  her  until  I  learned  that  she  was  out  of  town. 
I  hung  up  the  receiver,  almost  dizzy  with  disappoint- 
ment, and  it  was  fully  five  minutes  before  I  thought  of 
calling  up  again  and  asking  if  she  was  within  telephone 
reach.  It  seemed  she  was  down  on  the  bay  staying 
with  the  Samuel  Forbeses. 

Sammy  Forbes!  It  was  a  name  to  conjure  with 
just  then.  In  the  old  days  at  college  I  had  rather 
flouted  him,  but  now  I  was  ready  to  take  him  to  my 
heart.  I  remembered  that  he  had  always  meant  well, 
anyhow,  and  that  he  was  explosively  generous.  I 
called  him  up. 

"By  the  fumes  of  gasoline!"  he  said,  when  I  told 
him  who  I  was.  "Blakeley,  the  Fount  of  Wisdom 
against  Woman!  Blakeley,  the  Great  Unkissed! 
Welcome  to  our  city !" 

Whereupon  he  proceeded  to  urge  me  to  come  down 
to  the  Shack,  and  to  say  that  I  was  an  agreeable  sur- 
prise, because  four  times  in  two  hours  youths  had 
called  up  to  ask  if  Alison  West  was  stopping  with  him, 
and  to  suggest  that  they  had  a  vacant  day  or  two. 

"Oh — Miss  West !"    I  shouted  politely.    There  was 
a  buzzing  on  the  line.    "Is  she  there  ?" 
226 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  227 

Sam  had  no  suspicions.  Was  not  I  in  his  mind  al- 
ways the  Great  Unkissed? — which  sounds  like  the 
Great  Unwashed  and  is  even  more  of  a  reproach.  He 
asked  me  down  promptly,  as  I  had  hoped,  and  thrust 
aside  my  objections. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said.  "Bring  yourself.  The  lady 
that  keeps  my  boarding-house  is  calling  to  me  to  insist. 
You  remember  Dorothy,  don't  you,  Dorothy  Browne? 
She  says  unless  you  have  lost  your  figure  you  can  wear 
my  clothes  all  right.  All  you  need  here  is  a  bathing 
suit  for  daytime  and  a  dinner  coat  for  evening." 

"It  sounds  cool,"  I  temporized.  "If  you  are  sure  I 
won't  put  you  out — very  well,  Sam,  since  you  and 
your  wife  are  good  enough.  I  have  a  couple  of  days 
free.  Give  my  love  to  Dorothy  until  I  can  do  it  myself." 

Sam  met  me  himself  and  drove  me  out  to  the  Shack, 
which  proved  to  be  a  substantial  house  overlooking  the 
water.  On  the  way  he  confided  to  me  that  lots  of  mar- 
ried men  thought  they  were  contented  when  they  were 
merely  resigned,  but  that  it  was  the  only  life,  and  that 
Sam,  Junior,  could  swim  like  a  duck.  Incidentally, 
he  said  that  Alison  was  his  wife's  cousin,  their  respec- 
tive grandmothers  having,  at  proper  intervals,  married 
the  same  man,  and  that  Alison  would  lose  her  good 
looks  if  she  was  not  careful. 

"I  say  she's  worried,  and  I  stick  to  it,"  he  said,  as 
he  threw  the  lines  to  a  groom  and  prepared  to  get 
out.  "You  know  her,  and  she's  the  kind  of  girl  you 
think  you  can  read  like  a  book.  But  you  can't ;  don't 
fool  yourself.  Take  a  good  look  at  her  at  dinner, 


228     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Blake;  you  won't  lose  your  head  like  the  other  fel- 
lows— and  then  tell  me  what's  wrong  with  her.  We're 
mighty  fond  of  Allie." 

He  went  ponderously  up  the  steps,  for  Sam  had 
put  on  weight  since  I  knew  him.  At  the  door  he 
turned  around.  "Do  you  happen  to  know  the  Mac- 
Lure's  at  Seal  Harbor?"  he  asked  irrelevantly,  but 
Mrs.  Sam  came  into  the  hall  just  then,  both  hands  out 
to  greet  me,  and,  whatever  Forbes  had  meant  to  say, 
he  did  not  pick  up  the  subject  again. 

"We  are  having  tea  in  here,"  Dorothy  said  gaily, 
indicating  the  door  behind  her.  "Tea  by  courtesy, 
because  I  think  tea  is  the  only  beverage  that  isn't  rep- 
resented. And  then  we  must  dress,  for  this  is  hop 
night  at  the  club." 

"Which  is  as  great  a  misnomer  as  the  tea,"  Sam 
put  in,  ponderously  struggling  out  of  his  linen  driving 
coat.  "It's  bridge  night,  and  the -only  hops  are  in  the 
beer." 

He  was  still  gurgling  over  this  as  he  took  me  up- 
stairs. He  showed  me  my  room  himself,  and  then  be- 
gan the  fruitless  search  for  evening  raiment  that  kept 
me  home  that  night  from  the  club.  For  I  couldn't 
wear  Sam's  clothes.  That  was  clear,  after  a  perspiring 
seance  of  a  half  hour. 

"I  won't  do  it,  Sam,"  I  said,  when  I  had  draped  his 
dress-coat  on  me  toga  fashion.  "Who  am  I  to  have 
clothing  to  spare,  like  this,  when  many  a  poor  chap 
hasn't  even  a  cellar  door  to  cover  him.  I  won't  do  it; 
I'm  selfish,  but  not  that  selfish." 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  229 

"Lord,"  he  said,  wiping  his  face,  "how  you've  kept 
your  figure !  I  can't  wear  a  belt  any  more ;  got  to  have 
suspenders." 

He  reflected  over  his  grievance  for  some  time,  sit- 
ting on  the  side  of  the  bed.  "You  could  go  as  you 
are,"  he  said  finally.  "We  do  it  all  the  time,  only  to- 
night happens  to  be  the  annual  something  or  other, 
and — "  he  trailed  off  into  silence,  trying  to  buckle  my 
belt  around  him.  "A  good  six  inches,"  he  sighed.  "I 
never  get  into  a  hansom  cab  any  more  that  I  don't  ex- 
pect to  see  the  horse  fly  up  into  the  air.  Well,  Allie 
isn't  going  either.  She  turned  down  Granger  this  af- 
ternoon, the  Annapolis  fellow  you  met  on  the  stairs, 
pigeon-breasted  chap — and  she  always  gets  a  headache 
on  those  occasions." 

He  got  up  heavily  and  went  to  the  door.  "Granger 
is  leaving,"  he  said,  "I  may  be  able  to  get  his  dinner 
coat  for  you.  How  well  do  you  know  her?"  he  asked, 
with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 

"If  you  mean  Dolly—?" 

"Alison." 

"Fairly  well,"  I  said  cautiously.  "Not  as  well  as  I 
would  like  to.  I  dined  with  her  last  week  in  Washing- 
ton. And — I  knew  her  before  that." 

Forbes  touched  the  bell  instead  of  going  out,  and  told 
the  servant  who  answered  to  see  if  Mr.  Granger's  suit- 
case had  gone.  If  not,  to  bring  it  across  the  hall.  Then 
he  came  back  to  his  former  position  on  the  bed. 

"You  see,  we  feel  responsible  for  Allie — near  rela- 
tion and  all  that,"  he  began  pompously.  "And  we  can't 


230     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

talk  to  the  people  here  at  the  house — all  the  men  are  in 
love  with  her,  and  all  the  women  are  jealous.  Then — 
there's  a  lot  of  money,  too,  or  will  be." 

"Confound  the  money!"  I  muttered.  "That  is — 
nothing.  Razor  slipped." 

"I  can  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "because  you  don't  lose 
your  head  over  every  pretty  face — although  Allie  is 
more  than  that,  of  course.  But  about  a  month  ago 
she  went  away — to  Seal  Harbor,  to  visit  Janet  Mac- 
Lure.  Know  her?" 

"No." 

"She  came  home  to  Richmond  yesterday,  and  then 
came  down  here — Allie,  I  mean.  And  yesterday  after- 
noon Dolly  had  a  letter  from  Janet — something  about 
a  second  man — and  saying  she  was  disappointed  not  to 
have  had  Alison  there,  that  she  had  promised  them  a 
two  weeks'  visit!  What  do  you  make  of  that?  And 
that  isn't  the  worst.  Allie  herself  wasn't  in  the  room, 
but  there  were  eight  other  women,  and  because  Dolly 
had  put  belladonna  in  her  eyes  the  night  before  to  see 
how  she  would  look,  and  as  a  result  couldn't  see  any- 
thing nearer  than  across  the  room,  some  one  read  the 
letter  aloud  to  her,  and  the  whole  story  is  out.  One  of 
the  cats  told  Granger  and  the  boy  proposed  to  Allie  to- 
day, to  show  her  he  didn't  care  a  tinker's  dam  where 
she  had  been." 

"Good  boy!"  I  said,  with  enthusiasm.  I  liked  the 
Granger  fellow — since  he  was  out  of  the  running.  But 
Sam  was  looking  at  me  with  suspicion. 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  231 

"Blake,"  he  said,  "if  I  didn't  know  you  for  what 
you  are,  I'd  say  you  were  interested  there  yourself." 

Being  so  near  her,  under  the  same  roof,  with  even 
the  tie  of  a  dubious  secret  between  us,  was  making  me 
heady.  I  pushed  Forbes  toward  the  door. 

"I  interested!"  I  retorted,  holding  him  by  the  shoul- 
.ders.  "There  isn't  a  word  in  your  vocabulary  to  fit 
my  condition.  I  am  an  island  in  a  sunlit  sea  of  emo- 
tion, Sam,  a — an  empty  place  surrounded  by  longing — 
a " 

"An  empty  place  surrounded  by  longing!"  he  re- 
torted. "You  want  your  dinner,  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you — " 

I  shut  the  door  on  him  then.  He  seemed  suddenly 
sordid.  Dinner,  I  thought!  Although,  as  matter  of 
fact,  I  made  a  very  fair  meal  when,  Granger's  suit- 
case not  having  gone,  in  his  coat  and  some  other  man's 
trousers,  I  was  finally  fit  for  the  amenities.  Alison  did 
not  come  down  to  dinner,  so  it  was  clear  she  would  not 
go  over  to  the  club-house  dance.  I  pled  my  injured 
arm  and  a  ficticious,  vaguely  located  sprain  from  the 
wreck,  as  an  excuse  for  remaining  at  home.  Sam 
regaled  the  table  with  accounts  of  my  distrust  of 
women,  my  one  love  affair — with  Dorothy;  to  which 
I  responded,  as  was  expected,  that  only  my  failure 
there  had  kept  me  single  all  these  years,  and  that 
if  Sam  should  be  mysteriously  missing  during  the 
bathing  hour  to-morrow,  and  so  on. 

And  when  the  endless  meal  was  over,  and  yards  of 
white  veils  had  been  tied  over  pounds  of  hair — or  is  it, 


232     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

too,  bought  by  the  yard? — and  some  eight  ensembles 
with  their  abject  complements  had  been  packed  into 
three  automobiles  and  a  trap,  I  drew  a  long  breath  and 
faced  about.  I  had  just  then  only  one  object  in  life — 
to  find  Alison,  to  assure  her  of  my  absolute  faith  and 
confidence  in  her,  and  to  offer  my  help  and  my  poor 
self,  if  she  would  let  me,  in  her  service. 

She  was  not  easy  to  find.  I  searched  the  lower  floor, 
the  verandas  and  the  grounds,  circumspectly.  Then  I 
ran  into  a  little  English  girl  who  turned  out  to  be  her 
maid,  and  who  also  was  searching.  She  was  con- 
cerned because  her  mistress  had  had  no  dinner,  and 
because  the  tray  of  food  she  carried  would  soon  be 
cold.  I  took  the  tray  from  her,  on  the  glimpse  of 
something  white  on  the  shore,  and  that  was  how  I  met 
the  Girl  again. 

She  was  sitting  on  an  over-turned  boat,  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  staring  out  to  sea.  The  soft  tide  of  the  bay 
lapped  almost  at  her  feet,  and  the  draperies  of  her 
white  gown  melted  hazily  into  the  sands.  She  looked 
like  a  wraith,  a  despondent  phantom  of  the  sea,  al- 
though the  adjective  is  redundant.  Nobody  ever  thinks 
of  a  cheerful  phantom.  Strangely  enough,  considering 
her  evident  sadness,  she  was  whistling  softly  to  herself, 
over  and  over,  some  dreary  little  minor  air  that  sounded 
like  a  Bohemian  dirge.  She  glanced  up  quickly  when 
I  made  a  misstep  and  my  dishes  jingled.  All  con« 
sidered,  the  tray  was  out  of  the  picture :  the  sea,  the 
misty  starlight,  the  girl,  with  her  beauty — even  the 
sad  little  whistle  that  stopped  now  and  then  to  go 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  233 

bravely  on  again,  as  though  it  fought  against  the  odds 
of  a  trembling  lip.  And  then  I  came,  accompanied  by 
a  tray  of  little  silver  dishes  that  jingled  and  an  un- 
mistakable odor  of  broiled  chicken! 

"Oh!"  she  said  quickly;  and  then,  "Oh!  I  thought 
you  were  Jenkins." 

"Timeo  Danaos — what's  the  rest  of  it?"  I  asked, 
tendering  my  offering.  "You  didn't  have  any  dinner, 
you  know."  I  sat  down  beside  her.  "See,  I'll  be  the 
table.  What  was  the  old  fairy  tale  ?  'Little  goat  bleat : 
little  table  appear!'  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  be  the 
goat,  too." 

She  was  laughing  rather  tremulously. 

"We  never  do  meet  like  other  people,  do  we?"  she 
asked.  "We  really  ought  to  shake  hands  and  say  how 
are  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  meet  you  like  other  people,  and 
I  suppose  you  always  think  of  me  as  wearing  the 
other  fellow's  clothes,"  I  returned  meekly.  "I'm  doing 
it  again :  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  help  it.  These  are 
Granger's  that  I  have  on  now." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  again,  joyous- 
ly, this  time. 

"Oh,  it's  so  ridiculous,"  she  said,  "and  you  have 
never  seen  me  when  I  was  not  eating !  It's  too  prosaic !" 

"Which  reminds  me  that  the  chicken  is  getting  cold, 
and  the  ice  warm,"  I  suggested.  "At  the  time,  I 
thought  there  could  be  no  place  better  than  the  farm- 
house kitchen — but  this  is.  I  ordered  all  this  for 


234.     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

something  I  want  to  say  to  you — the  sea,  the  sand, 
the  stars." 

"How  alliterative  you  are!"  she  said,  trying  to  be 
flippant.  "You  are  not  to  say  anything  until  I  have  had 
my  supper.  Look  how  the  things  are  spilled  around !" 

But  she  ate  nothing,  after  all,  and  pretty  soon  I  put 
the  tray  down  in  the  sand.  I  said  little ;  there  was  no 
hurry.  We  were  together,  and  time  meant  nothing 
against  that  age-long  wash  of  the  sea.  The  air  blew 
her  hair  in  small  damp  curls  against  her  face,  and 
little  by  little  the  tide  retreated,  leaving  our  boat  an 
oasis  in  a  waste  of  gray  sand. 

"If  seven  maids  with  seven  mops  swept  it  for  half 

a  year 
Do  you  suppose,  the  walrus  said,  that  they  could  get 

it  clear?" 

she  threw  at  me  once  when  she  must  have  known  I 
was  going  to  speak.  I  held  her  hand,  and  as  long  as 
I  merely  held  it  she  let  it  lie  warm  in  mine.  But  when 
I  raised  it  to  my  lips,  and  kissed  the  soft,  open  palm, 
she  drew  it  away  without  displeasure. 

"Not  that,  please,"  she  protested,  and  fell  to  whis- 
tling softly  again,  her  chin  in  her  hands.  "I  can't 
sing,"  she  said,  to  break  an  awkward  pause,  "and  so, 
when  I'm  fidgety,  or  have  something  on  my  mind,  I 
whistle.  I  hope  you  don't  dislike  it?" 

"I  love  it,"  I  asserted  warmly.  I  did;  when  she 
pursed  her  lips  like  that  I  was  mad  to  kiss  them. 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  235 

"I  saw  you — at  the  station,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"You — you  were  in  a  hurry  to  go."  I  did  not  say 
anything,  and  after  a  pause  she  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Men  are  queer,  aren't  they?"  she  said,  and  fell  to 
whistling  again. 

After  a  while  she  sat  up  as  if  she  had  made  a  reso- 
lution. "I  am  going  to  confess  something,"  she  an- 
nounced suddenly.  "You  said,  you  know,  that  you  had 
ordered  all  this  for  something  you — you  wanted  to 
say  to  me.  But  the  fact  is,  I  fixed  it  all — came  here,  I 
mean,  because — I  knew  you  would  come,  and  I  had 
something  to  tell  you.  It  was  such  a  miserable  thing 
I — needed  the  accessories  to  help  me  out." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  that  distresses  you  to 
tell,"  I  assured  her.  "I  didn't  come  here  to  force  your 
confidence,  Alison.  I  came  because  I  couldn't  help  it." 
She  did  not  object  to  my  use  of  her  name. 

"Have  you  found — your  papers?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing directly  at  me  for  almost  the  first  time. 

"Not  yet.    We  hope  to." 

"The — police  have  not  interfered  with  you?" 

"They  haven't  had  any  opportunity,"  I  equivocated. 
"You  needn't  distress  yourself  about  that,  anyhow." 

"But  I  do.  I  wonder  why  you  still  believe  in  me? 
Nobody  else  does." 

"I  wonder,"  I  repeated,  "why  I  do!" 

"If  you  produce  Harry  Sullivan,"  she  was  saying, 
partly  to  herself,  "and  if  you  could  connect  him  with — 
Mr.  Bronson,  and  get  a  full  account  of  why  he  was  on 
the  train,  and  all  that,  it — it  would  help,  wouldn't  it?" 


236      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  acknowledged  that  it  would.  Now  that  the  whole 
truth  was  almost  in  my  possession,  I  was  stricken  with 
the  old  cowardice.  I  did  not  want  to  know  what  she 
might  tell  me.  The  yellow  line  on  the  horizon,  where 
the  moon  was  coming  up,  was  a  broken  bit  of  golden 
chain:  my  heel  in  the  sand  was  again  pressed  on  a 
woman's  yielding  fingers :  I  pulled  myself  together  with 
a  jerk. 

"In  order  that  what  you  might  tell  me  may  help  me,  if 
it  will,"  I  said  constrainedly,  "it  would  be  necessary, 
perhaps,  that  you  tell  it  to  the  police.  Since  they  have 
found  the  end  of  the  necklace — " 

"The  end  of  the  necklace!"  she  repeated  slowly. 
"What  about  the  end  of  the  necklace?" 

I  stared  at  her.  "Don't  you  remember" — I  leaned 
forward — "the  end  of  the  cameo  necklace,  the  part  that 
was  broken  off,  and  was  found  in  the  black  sealskin 
bag,  stained  with — with  blood  ?" 

"Blood,"  she  said  dully.  "You  mean  that  you  found 
the  broken  end  ?  And  then — you  had  my  gold  pocket- 
book,  and  you  saw  the  necklace  in  it,  and  you — must 
have  thought — " 

"I  didn't  think  anything,"  I  hastened  to  assure  her. 
"I  tell  you,  Alison,  I  never  thought  of  anything  but 
that  you  were  unhappy,  and  that  I  had  no  right  to  help 
you.  God  knows,  I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  help 
you." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me  and  I  took  it  between 
both  of  mine.  No  word  of  love  had  passed  between 
us.  but  I  felt  that  she  knew  and  understood.  It  was 


THE  SEA,  THE  SAND,  THE  STARS  237 

one  of  the  moments  that  come  seldom  in  a  lifetime, 
and  then  only  in  great  crises,  a  moment  of  perfect 
understanding  and  trust. 

Then  she  drew  her  hand  away  and  sat,  erect  and 
determined,  her  fingers  laced  in  her  lap.  As  she  talked 
the  moon  came  up  slowly  and  threw  its  bright  pathway 
across  the  water.  Back  of  us,  in  the  trees  beyond  the 
sea  wall,  a  sleepy  bird  chirruped  drowsily,  and  a  wave, 
larger  and  bolder  than  its  brothers,  sped  up  the  sand, 
bringing  the  moon's  silver  to  our  very  feet.  I  bent 
toward  the  girl. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  just  one  question." 

"Aaything  you  like."  Her  voice  was  almost  dreary. 

"Was  it — because  of  anything  you  are  going  to  tell 
me  that  you  refused  Richey?" 

She  drew  her  breath  in  sharply. 

"No,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  me.  "No.  That 
was  not  the  reason." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
ALISON'S  STORY 

SHE  told  her  story  evenly,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
water,  only  now  and  then,  when  I,  too,  sat  looking 
seaward,  I  thought  she  glanced  at  me  furtively.  And 
once,  in  the  middle  of  it,  she  stopped  altogether. 

"You  don't  realize  it,  probably,"  she  protested,  "but 
you  look  like  a — a  war  god.  Your  face  is  horrible." 

"I  will  turn  my  back,  if  it  will  help  any,"  I  said 
stormily,  "but  if  you  expect  me  to  look  anything  but 
murderous,  why,  you  don't  know  what  I  am  going 
through  with.  That's  all." 

The  story  of  her  meeting  with  the  Curtis  woman 
was  brief  enough.  They  had  met  in  Rome  first,  where 
Alison  and  her  mother  had  taken  a  villa  for  a  year. 
Mrs.  Curtis  had  hovered  on  the  ragged  edges  of 
society  there,  pleading  the  poverty  of  the  south  since 
the  war  as  a  reason  for  not  going  out  more.  There 
was  talk  of  a  brother,  but  Alison  had  not  seen  him,  and 
after  a  scandal  which  implicated  Mrs.  Curtis  and  a 
young  attache  of  the  Austrian  embassy,  Alison  had 
been  forbidden  to  see  the  woman. 

"The  women  had  never  liked  her,  anyhow,"  she  said. 
"She  did  unconventional  things,  and  they  are  very  con- 
ventional there.  And  they  said  she  did  not  always 
pay  her — her  gambling  debts.  I  didn't  like  them.  I 
238 


ALISON'S  STORY 239 

thought  they  didn't  like  her  because  she  was  poor — 
and  popular.  Then — we  came  home,  and  I  almost 
forgot  her,  but  last  spring,  when  mother  was  not 
well — she  had  taken  grandfather  to  the  Riviera,  and  it 
always  uses  her  up — we  went  to  Virginia  Hot  Springs, 
and  we  met  them  there,  the  brother,  too,  this  time. 
His  name  was  Sullivan,  Harry  Pinckney  Sullivan." 

"I  know.    Go  on." 

"Mother  had  a  nurse,  and  I  was  alone  a  great  deal, 
and  they  were  very  kind  to  me.  I — I  saw  a  lot  of 
them.  The  brother  rather  attracted  me,  partly — partly 
because  he  did  not  make  love  to  me.  He  even  seemed 
to  avoid  me,  and  I  was  piqued.  I  had  been  spoiled,  I 
suppose.  Most  of  the  other  men  I  knew  had — had — " 

"I  know  that,  too,"  I  said  bitterly,  and  moved  away 
from  her  a  trifle.  I  was  brutal,  but  the  whole  story 
was  a  long  torture.  I  think  she  knew  what  I  was 
suffering,  for  she  showed  no  resentment. 

"It  was  early  and  there  were  few  people  around — 
none  that  I  cared  about.  And  mother  and  the  nurse 
played  cribbage  eternally,  until  I  felt  as  though  the 
little  pegs  were  driven  into  my  brain.  And  when 
Mrs.  Curtis  arranged  drives  and  picnics,  I — I  slipped 
away  and  went.  I  suppose  you  won't  believe  me,  but 
I  had  never  done  that  kind  of  thing  before,  and  I — 
well,  I  have  paid  up,  I  think." 

"What  sort  of  looking  chap  was  Sullivan?"  I  de- 
manded. I  had  got  up  and  was  pacing  back  and  for- 
ward on  the  sand.  I  remember  kicking  savagely  at  a 
bit  of  water-soaked  board  that  lay  in  my  way. 


240     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Very  handsome — as  large  as  you  are,  but  fair,  and 
even  more  erect." 

I  drew  my  shoulders  up  sharply.  I  am  straight 
enough,  but  I  was  fairly  sagging  with  jealous  rage. 

"When  mother  began  to  get  around,  somebody  told 
her  that  I  had  been  going  about  with  Mrs.  Curtis  and 
her  brother,  and  we  had  a  dreadful  time.  I  was 
dragged  home  like  a  bad  child.  Did  anybody  ever  do 
that  to  you?" 

"Nobody  ever  cared.  I  was  born  an  orphan,"  I 
said,  with  a  cheerless  attempt  at  levity.  "Go  on." 

"If  Mrs.  Curtis  knew,  she  never  said  anything.  She 
wrote  me  charming  letters,  and  in  the  summer,  when 
they  went  to  Cresson,  she  asked  me  to  visit  her  there. 
I  was  too  proud  to  let  her  know  that  I  could  not  go 
where  I  wished,  and  so — I  sent  Polly,  my  maid,  to 
her  aunt's  in  the  country,  pretended  to  go  to  Seal 
Harbor,  and  really — went  to  Cresson.  You  see  I 
warned  you  it  would  be  an  unpleasant  story." 

I  went  over  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  All  the  ac- 
cumulated jealousy  of  the  last  few  w*eks  had  been 
fired  by  what  she  told  me.  If  Sullivan  had  come 
across  the  sands  just  then,  I  think  I  would  have 
strangled  him  with  my  hands,  out  of  pure  hate. 

"Did  you  marry  him?"  I  demanded.  My  voice 
sounded  hoarse  and  strange  in  my  ears.  "That's  all 
I  want  to  know.  Did  you  marry  him?" 

"No." 

I  drew  a  long  breath. 

"You— cared  about  him?" 


ALISON'S  STORY 241 

She  hesitated. 

"No,"  she  said  finally.    "I  did  not  care  about  him." 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  boat  and  mopped 
my  hot  face.  I  was  heartily  ashamed  of  myself,  and 
mingled  with  my  abasement  was  a  great  relief.  If 
she  had  not  married  him,  and  had  not  cared  for  him, 
nothing  else  was  of  any  importance. 

"I  was  sorry,  of  course,  the  moment  the  train  had 
started,  but  I  had  wired  I  was  coming,  and  I  could 
not  go  back,  and  then  when  I  got  there,  the  place  was 
charming.  There  were  no  neighbors,  but  we  fished 
and  rode  and  motored,  and — it  was  moonlight,  like 
this." 

I  put  my  hand  over  both  of  hers,  clasped  in  her  lap. 
"I  know,"  I  acknowledged  repentantly,  "and — people 
do  queer  things  when  it  is  moonlight.  The  moon  has 
got  me  to-night,  Alison.  If  I  am  a  boor,  remember 
that,  won't  you?" 

Her  ringers  lay  quiet  under  mine.  "And  so,"  she 
went  on  with  a  little  sigh,  "I  began  to  think  perhaps 
I  cared.  But  all  the  time  I  felt  that  there  was  some- 
thing not  quite  right.  Now  and  then  Mrs.  Curtis 
would  say  or  do  something  that  gave  me  a  queer  start, 
as  if  she  had  dropped  a  mask  for  a  moment.  And 
there  was  trouble  with  the  servants;  they  were  almost 
insolent.  I  couldn't  understand.  I  don't  know  when 
it  dawned  on  me  that  the  old  Baron  Cavalcanti  had 
been  right  when  he  said  they  were  not  my  kind  of 
people.  But  I  wanted  to  get  away,  wanted  it  des- 
perately." 


242      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Of  course,  they  were  not  your  kind,"  I  cried. 
"The  man  was  married!  The  girl  Jennie,  a  house- 
maid, was  a  spy  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  employ.  If  he  had 
pretended  to  marry  you  I  would  have  killed  him! 
Not  only  that,  but  the  man  he  murdered,  Harrington, 
was  his  wife's  father.  And  I'll  see  him  hang  by  the 
neck  yet  if  it  takes  every  energy  and  every  penny  I 
possess." 

I  could  have  told  her  so  much  more  gently,  have 
broken  the  shock  for  her;  I  have  never  been  proud  of 
that  evening  on  the  sand.  I  was  alternately  a  boor 
and  a  ruffian — like  a  hurt  youngster  who  passes  the 
blow  that  has  hurt  him  on  to  his  playmate,  that  both 
may  bawl  together.  And  now  Alison  sat,  white  and 
cold,  without  speech. 

"Married !"  she  said  finally,  in  a  small  voice.  "Why, 
I  don't  think  it  is  possible,  is  it?  I — I  was  on  my 
way  to  Baltimore  to  marry  him  myself,  when  the 
wreck  came." 

"But  you  said  you  didn't  care  for  him!"  I  pro- 
tested, my  heavy  masculine  mind  unable  to  jump  the 
gaps  in  her  story.  And  then,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  I  realized  that  she  was  crying.  She  shook 
off  my  hand  and  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief,  and 
failing  to  find  it,  she  accepted  the  one  I  thrust  into 
her  wet  fingers. 

Then,  little  by  little,  she  told  me  from  the  handker- 
chief, a  sordid  story  of  a  motor  trip  in  the  mountains 
without  Mrs.  Curtis,  of  a  lost  road  and  a  broken  car, 
and  a  rainy  night  when  they — she  and  Sullivan, 


ALISON'S  STORY 243 

tramped  eternally  and  did  not  get  home.  And  of  Mrs. 
Curtis,  when  they  got  home  at  dawn,  suddenly  grown 
conventional  and  deeply  shocked.  Of  her  own  proud, 
half-disdainful  consent  to  make  possible  the  hackneyed 
compromising  situation  by  marrying  the  rascal,  and 
then — of  his  disappearance  from  the  train.  It  was  so 
terrible  to  her,  such  a  Heaven-sent  relief  to  me,  in 
spite  of  my  rage  against  Sullivan,  that  I  laughed  aloud. 
At  which  she  looked  at  me  over  the  handkerchief. 

"I  know  it's  funny,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath.  "When  I  think  that  I  nearly  married  a  mur- 
derer— and  didn't — I  cry  for  sheer  joy."  Then  she 
buried  her  face  and  cried  again. 

"Please  don't,"  I  protested  unsteadily.  "I  won't 
be  responsible  if  you  keep  on  crying  like  that.  I  may 
forget  that  I  have  a  capital  charge  hanging  over  my 
head,  and  that  I  may  be  arrested  at  any  moment." 

That  brought  her  out  of  the  handkerchief  at  once. 
"I  meant  to  be  so  helpful,"  she  said,  "and  I've  thought 
of  nothing  but  myself!  There  were  some  things  I 
meant  to  tell  you.  If  Jennie  was — what  you  say,  then 
I  understand  why  she  came  to  me  just  before  I  left. 
She  had  been  packing  my  things  and  she  must  have 
seen  what  condition  I  was  in,  for  she  came  over  to 
me  when  I  was  getting  my  wraps  on,  to  leave,  and 
said,  'Don't  do  it,  Miss  West,  I  beg  you  won't  do  it; 
you'll  be  sorry  ever  after.'  And  just  then  Mrs.  Curtis 
came  in  and  Jennie  slipped  out." 

'That  was  all?" 

"No.    As  we  went  through  the  station  the  telegraph 


244     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

operator  gave  Har — Mr.  Sullivan  a  message.  He 
read  it  on  the  platform,  and  it  excited  him  terribly. 
He  took  his  sister  aside  and  they  talked  together.  He 
was  white  with  either  fear  or  anger — I  don't  know 
which.  Then,  when  we  boarded  the  train,  a  woman 
in  black,  with  beautiful  hair,  who  was  standing  on  the 
car  platform,  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  then  drew 
back.  He  looked  at  her  and  glanced  away  again,  but 
she  reeled  as  if  he  had  struck  her." 

"Then  what?"     The  situation  was  growing  clearer. 

"Mrs.  Curtis  and  I  had  the  drawing-room.  I  had 
a  dreadful  night,  just  sleeping  a  little  now  and  then. 
I  dreaded  to  see  dawn  come.  It  was  to  be  my  wedding- 
day.  When  we  found  Harry  had  disappeared  in  the 
night,  Mrs.  Curtis  was  in  a  frenzy.  Then — I  saw  his 
cigarette  case  in  your  hand.  I  had  given  it  to  him. 
You  wore  his  clothes.  The  murder  was  discovered 
and  you  were  accused  of  it!  What  could  I  do ?  And 
then,  afterward,  when  I  saw  him  asleep  at  the  farm- 
house, I — I  was  panic-stricken.  I  locked  him  in  and 
ran.  I  didn't  know  why  he  did  it,  but — he  had 
killed  a  man." 

Some  one  was  calling  Alison  through  a  megaphone, 
from  the  veranda.  It  sounded  like  Sam.  "All-ee," 
he  called.  "All-ee!  I'm  going  to  have  some  anchovies 
on  toast!  All-ee!"  Neither  of  us  heard. 

"I  wonder,"  I  reflected,  "if  you  would  be  willing 
to  repeat  a  part  of  that  story — just  from  the  telegram 
on — to  a  couple  of  detectives,  say  on  Monday.  If  you 


ALISON'S  STORY 245 

would  tell  that,  and — how  the  end  of  your  necklace 
got  into  the  sealskin  bag — " 

"My  necklace!"  she  repeated.  "But  it  isn't  mine. 
I  picked  it  up  in  the  car." 

"All-eel"  Sam  again.  "I  see  you  down  there. 
I'm  making  a  julep!" 

Alison  turned  and  called  through  her  hands.  "Com- 
ing in  a  moment,  Sam,"  she  said,  and  rose.  "It  must 
be  very  late :  Sam  is  home.  We  would  better  go  back 
to  the  house." 

"Don't,"  I  begged  her.  "Anchovies  and  juleps  and 
Sam  will  go  on  for  ever,  and  I  have  you  such  a  little 
time.  I  suppose  I  am  only  one  of  a  dozen  or  so,  but — 
you  are  the  only  girl  in  the  world.  You  know  I  love 
you,  don't  you,  dear?" 

Sam  was  whistling,  an  irritating  bird  call,  over  and 
over.  She  pursed  her  red  lips  and  answered  him  in 
kind.  It  was  more  than  I  could  endure. 

"Sam  or  no  Sam,"  I  said  firmly,  "I  am  going  to 
kiss  you!" 

But  Sam's  voice  came  strident  through  the  mega- 
phone. "Be  good,  you  two,"  he  bellowed,  "I've  got  the 
binoculars!"  And  so,  under  fire,  we  walked  sedately 
back  to  the  house.  My  pulses  were  throbbing — the 
little  swish  of  her  dress  beside  me  on  the  grass  was 
pain  and  ecstasy.  I  had  but  to  put  out  my  hand  to 
touch  her,  and  I  dared  not. 

Sam,  armed  with  a  megaphone  and  field  glasses/ 
bent  over  the  rail  and  watched  us  with  gleeful 
malignity. 


246     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"Home  early,  aren't  you?"  Alison  called,  when  we 
reached  the  steps. 

"Led  a  club  when  my  partner  had  doubled  no- 
trumps,  and  she  fainted.  Damn  the  heart  conven- 
tion!" he  said  cheerfully.  "The  others  are  not  here 
yet." 

Three  hours  later  I  went  up  to  bed.  I  had  not 
seen  Alison  alone  again.  The  noise  was  at  its  height 
below,  and  I  glanced  down  into  the  garden,  still  bright 
in  the  moonlight.  Leaning  against  a  tree,  and  staring 
interestedly  into  the  billiard  room,  was  Johnson. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IN  THE  DINING-ROOM 

THAT  was  Saturday  night,  two  weeks  after  the 
wreck.  The  previous  five  days  had  been  full  of 
swift-following  events — the  woman  in  the  house  next 
door,  the  picture  in  the  theater  of  a  man  about  to  leap 
from  the  doomed  train,  the  dinner  at  the  Dallases,  and 
Richey's  discovery  that  Alison  was  the  girl  in  the 
case.  In  quick  succession  had  come  our  visit  to  the 
Carter  place,  the  finding  of  the  rest  of  the  telegram, 
my  seeing  Alison  there,  and  the  strange  interview  with 
Mrs.  Conway.  The  Cresson  trip  stood  out  in  my 
memory  for  its  serio-comic  horrors  and  its  one  real 
thrill.  Then — the  discovery  by  the  police  of  the  seal- 
skin bag  and  the  bit  of  chain;  Hotchkiss  producing 
triumphantly  Stuart  for  Sullivan  and  his  subsequent 
discomfiture;  McKnight  at  the  station  with  Alison, 
and  later  the  confession  that  he  was  out  of  the  running. 
And  yet,  when  I  thought  it  all  over,  the  entire  week 
and  its  events  were  two  sides  of  a  triangle  that  was 
narrowing  rapidly  to  an  apex,  a  point.  And  the  said 
apex  was  at  that  moment  in  the  drive  below  my  win- 
dow, resting  his  long  legs  by  sitting  on  a  carriage 
block,  and  smoking  a  pipe  that  made  the  night  hideous. 
The  sense  of  the  ridiculous  is  very  close  to  the  sense 
of  tragedy.  I  opened  my  screen  and  whistled,  and 
247 


248     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

Johnson  looked  up  and  grinned.  We  said  nothing.  I 
held  up  a  handful  of  cigars,  he  extended  his  hat,  and 
when  I  finally  went  to  sleep,  it  was  to  a  soothing  breeze 
that  wafted  in  salt  air  and  a  faint  aroma  of  good 
tobacco.  I  was  thoroughly  tired,  but  I  slept  restlessly, 
dreaming  of  two  detectives  with  Pittsburg  warrants 
being  held  up  by  Hotchkiss  at  the  point  of  a  splint, 
while  Alison  fastened  their  hands  with  a  chain  that 
was  broken  and  much  too  short.  I  was  roused  about 
dawn  by  a  light  rap  at  the  door,  and,  opening  it,  I 
found  Forbes,  in  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  pajama  coat. 
He  was  as  pleasant  as  most  fleshy  people  are  when 
they  have  to  get  up  at  night,  and  he  said  the  telephone 
had  been  ringing  for  an  hour,  and  he  didn't  know  why 
somebody  else  in  the  blankety-blank  house  couldn't 
have  heard  it.  He  wouldn't  get  to  sleep  until  r^/on. 

As  he  was  palpably  asleep  on  his  feet,  I  left  him 
grumbling  and  went  to  the  telephone.  It  proved  to  be 
Richey,  who  had  found  me  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
tracing  Alison,  and  he  was  jubilant. 

"You'll  have  to  come  back,"  he  said.  "Got  a  rail- 
road schedule  there?" 

"I  don't  sleep  with  one  in  my  pocket,"  I  retorted, 
"but  if  you'll  hold  the  line  I'll  call  out  the  window  to 
Johnson.  He's  probably  got  one.'" 

"Johnson!"  I  could  hear  the  laugh  with  which 
McKnight  comprehended  the  situation.  He  was  still 
chuckling  when  I  came  back. 

"Train  to  Richmond  at  six-thirty  A.  M.,"  I  said. 
"What  time  is  it  now  ?" 


IN  THE  DINING-ROOM          249 

"Four.  Listen,  Lollie.  We've  got  him.  Do  you 
hear?  Through  the  woman  at  Baltimore.  Then — 
the  other  woman,  the  lady  of  the  restaurant" — he  was 
obviously  avoiding  names — "she  is  playing  our  cards 
for  us.  No — I  don't  know  why,  and  I  don't  care. 
But  you  be  at  the  Incubator  to-night  at  eight  o'clock. 
If  you  can't  shake  Johnson,  bring  him,  bless  him." 

To  this  day  I  believe  the  Sam  Forbeses  have  not 
recovered  from  the  surprise  of  my  unexpected  arrival, 
my  one  appearance  at  dinner  in  Granger's  clothes,  and 
the  note  on  my  dresser  which  informed  them  the  next 
morning  that  I  had  folded  my  tents  like  the  Arabs 
and  silently  stole  away.  For  at  half  after  five  John- 
son and  I,  the  former  as  uninquisitive  as  ever,  were 
on  our  way  through  the  dust  to  the  station,  three  miles 
away,  and  by  four  that  afternoon  we  were  in  Washing- 
ton. The  journey  had  been  uneventful.  Johnson  re- 
laxed under  the  influence  of  my  tobacco,  ^nd  spoke 
at  some  length  on  the  latest  improvements  in  gallows, 
dilating  on  the  absurdity  of  cutting  out  the  former 
free  passes  to  see  the  affair  in  operation.  I  remember, 
too,  that  he  mentioned  the  curious  anomaly  that  per- 
mits a  man  about  to  be  hanged  to  eat  a  hearty  meal. 
I  did  not  enjoy  my  dinner  that  night. 

Before  we  got  into  Washington  I  had  made  an 
arrangement  with  Johnson  to  surrender  myself  at  two 
the  following  afternoon.  Also,  I  had  wired  to  Alison, 
asking  her  if  she  would  carry  out  the  contract  she  had 
made.  The  detective  saw  me  home,  and  left  me  there. 

Mrs.  Klopton  received  me  with  dignified  reserve. 


250     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

The  very  tone  in  which  she  asked  me  when  I  would 
dine  told  me  that  something  was  wrong. 

"Now — what  is  it,  Mrs.  Klopton?"  I  demanded 
finally,  when  she  had  informed  me,  in  a  patient  and 
long-suffering  tone,  that  she  felt  worn  out  and  thought 
she  needed  a  rest. 

"When  I  lived  with  Mr.  Justice  Springer,"  she  be- 
gan acidly,  her  mending-basket  in  her  hands,  "it  was 
an  orderly,  well-conducted  household.  You  can  ask 
any  of  the  neighbors.  Meals  were  cooked  and,  what's 
more,  they  were  eaten;  there  was  none  of  this  'here 
one  day  and  gone  the  next'  business." 

"Nonsense,"  I  observed.  "You're  tired,  that's  all, 
Mrs.  Klopton.  And  I  wish  you  would  go  out;  I  want 
to  bathe." 

"That's  not  all,"  she  said  with  dignity,  from  the 
doorway.  "Women  coming  and  going  here,  women 
whose  shoes  I  am  not  fit — I  mean,  women  who  are  not 
fit  to  touch  my  shoes — coming  here  as  insolent  as  you 
please,  and  asking  for  you." 

"Good  heavens !"  I  exclaimed.  "What  did  you  tell 
them — her,  whichever  it  was  ?" 

"Told  her  you  were  sick  in  a  hospital  and  wouldn't 
be  out  for  a  year!"  she  said  triumphantly.  "And 
when  she  said  she  thought  she'd  come  in  and  wait  for 
you,  I  slammed  the  door  on  her." 

"What  time  was  she  here?" 

"Late  last  night.  And  she  had  a  light-haired  man 
across  the  street.  If  she  thought  I  didn't  see  him,  she 


IN  THE  DINING-ROOM          251 

don't  know  me."  Then  she  closed  the  door  and  left 
me  to  my  bath  and  my  reflections. 

At  five  minutes  before  eight  I  was  at  the  Incubator, 
where  I  found  Hotchkiss  and  McKnight.  They  were 
bending  over  a  table,  on  which  lay  McKnight's  total 
armament — a  pair  of  pistols,  an  elephant  gun  and  an 
old  cavalry  saber. 

"Draw  up  a  chair  and  help  yourself  to  pie,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  arsenal.  "This  is  for  the  benefit  of 
our  friend  Hotchkiss  here,  who  says  he  is  a  small  man 
and  fond  of  life." 

Hotchkiss,  who  had  been  trying  to  get  the  wrong  end 
of  a  cartridge  into  the  barrel  of  one  of  the  revolvers, 
straightened  himself  and  mopped  his  face. 

"We  have  desperate  people  to  handle,"  he  said 
pompously,  "and  we  may  need  desperate  means." 

"Hotchkiss  is  like  the  small  boy  whose  one  ambition 
was  to  have  people  grow  ashen  and  tremble  at  the 
mention  of  his  name,"  McKnight  jibed.  But  they  were 
serious  enough,  both  of  them,  under  it  all,  and  when 
they  had  told  me  what  they  planned,  I  was  serious, 
too. 

"You're  compounding  a  felony,"  I  remonstrated, 
when  they  had  explained.  "I'm  not  eager  to  be  locked 
away,  but,  by  Jove,  to  offer  her  the  stolen  notes  in  ex- 
change for  Sullivan!" 

"We  haven't  got  either  of  them,  you  know,"  Mc- 
Knight remonstrated,  "and  we  won't  have,  if  we  don't 
start.  Come  along,  Fido,"  to  Hotchkiss. 

The  plan  was  simplicity  itself.    According  to  Hotch- 


252     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

kiss,  Sullivan  was  to  meet  Bronson  at  Mrs.  Conway's 
apartment,  at  eight-thirty  that  night,  with  the  notes. 
He  was  to  be  paid  there  and  the  papers  destroyed. 
"But  just  before  that  interesting  finale,"  McKnight 
ended,  "we  will  walk  in,  take  the  notes,  grab  Sullivan, 
and  give  the  police  a  jolt  that  will  put  them  out  of  the 
count." 

I  suppose  not  one  of  us,  slewing  around  corners 
in  the  machine  that  night,  had  the  faintest  doubt  that 
we  were  on  the  right  track,  or  that  Fate,  scurvy  enough 
before,  was  playing  into  our  hands  at  last.  Little 
Hotchkiss  was  in  a  state  of  fever;  he  alternately 
twitched  and  examined  the  revolver,  and  a  fear  that 
the  two  movements  might  be  synchronous  kept  me  un- 
easy. He  produced  and  dilated  on  the  scrap  of  pillow 
slip  from  the  wreck,  and  showed  me  the  stiletto,  with 
its  point  in  cotton  batting  for  safekeeping.  And  in 
the  intervals  he  implored  Richey  not  to  make  such 
fine  calculations  at  the  corners. 

We  were  all  grave  enough  and  very  quiet,  however, 
when  we  reached  the  large  building  where  Mrs.  Con- 
way  had  her  apartment.  McKnight  left  the  power  on, 
in  case  we  might  want  to  make  a  quick  get-away,  and 
Hotchkiss  gave  a  final  look  at  the  revolver.  I  had 
no  weapon.  Somehow  it  all  seemed  melodramatic  to 
the  verge  of  farce.  In  the  doorway  Hotchkiss  was  a 
half  dozen  feet  ahead;  Richey  fell  back  beside  me. 
He  dropped  his  affectation  of  gayety,  and  I  thought 
he  looked  tired.  "Same  old  Sam,  I  suppose?"  he 
asked. 


IN  THE  DINING-ROOM          253 

'"Same,  only  more  of  him." 

"I  suppose  Alison  was  there?  How  is  she?"  he 
inquired  irrelevantly. 

"Very  well.  I  did  not  see  her  this  morning." 
Hotchkiss  was  waiting  near  the  elevator.  McKnight 
put  his  hand  on  my  arm.  "Now,  look  here,  old  man," 
he  said,  "I've  got  two  arms  and  a  revolver,  and  you've 
got  one  arm  and  a  splint.  If  Hotchkiss  is  right,  and 
there  is  a  row,  you  crawl  under  a  table." 

"The  deuce  I  will!"  I  declared  scornfully. 

We  crowded  out  of  the  elevator  at  the  fourth  floor, 
and  found  ourselves  in  a  rather  theatrical  hallway  of 
draperies  and  armor.  It  was  very  quiet;  we  stood 
uncertainly  after  the  car  had  gone,  and  looked  at  the 
two  or  three  doors  in  sight.  They  were  heavy,  covered 
with  metal,  and  sound  proof.  From  somewhere  above 
came  the  metallic  accuracy  of  a  player-piano,  and 
through  the  open  window  we  could  hear — or  feel — 
the  throb  of  the  Cannonball's  engine. 

"Well,  Sherlock,"  McKnight  said,  "what's  the  next 
move  in  the  game?  Is  it  our  jump,  or  theirs?  You 
brought  us  here." 

None  of  us  knew  just  what  to  do  next.  No  sound 
of  conversation  penetrated  the  heavy  doors.  We  waited 
uneasily  for  some  minutes,  and  Hotchkiss  looked  at 
his  watch.  Then  he  put  it  to  his  ear. 

"Good  gracious  I"  he  exclaimed,  his  head  cocked  on 
one  side,  "I  believe  it  has  stopped.  I'm  afraid  we  are 
late." 

We  were  late.     My  watch  and  Hotchkiss'  agreed  at 


254      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

nine  o'clock,  and,  with  the  discovery  that  our  man 
might  have  come  and  gone,  our  zest  in  the  adventure 
began  to  flag.  McKnight  motioned  us  away  from  the 
door  and  rang  the  bell.  There  was  no  response,  no 
sound  within.  He  rang  it  twice,  the  last  time  long 
and  vigorously,  without  result.  Then  he  turned  and 
looked  at  us. 

"I  don't  half  like  this,"  he  said.  "That  woman  is 
in ;  you  heard  me  ask  the  elevator  boy.  For  two  cents 

T>  J » 

I  had  seen  it  when  he  did.  The  door  was  ajar  about 
an  inch,  and  a  narrow  wedge  of  rose-colored  light 
showed  beyond.  I  pushed  the  door  a  little  and  listened. 
Then,  with  both  men  at  my  heels,  I  stepped  into  the 
private  corridor  of  the  apartment  and  looked  around. 
It  was  a  square  reception  hall,  with  rugs  on  the  floor, 
a  tall  mahogany  rack  for  hats,  and  a  couple  of  chairs. 
A  lantern  of  rose-colored  glass  and  a  desk  light  over  a 
writing-table  across  made  the  room  bright  and  cheer- 
ful. It  was  empty. 

None  of  us  was  comfortable.  The  place  was  full 
of  feminine  trifles  that  made  us  feel  the  weakness  of 
our  position.  Some  such  instinct  made  McKnight 
suggest  division. 

"We  look  like  an  invading  army,"  he  said.  "If  she's 
here  alone,  we  will  startle  her  into  a  spasm.  One  of 
us  could  take  a  look  around  and — " 

"What  was  that?    Didn't  you  hear  something?" 

The  sound,  whatever  it  had  been,  was  not  repeated. 
We  went  awkwardly  out  into  the  hall,  very  uncom- 


IN  THE  DINING-ROOM          255 

fortable,  all  of  us,  and  flipped  a  coin.  The  choice  fell 
to  me,  which  was  right  enough,  for  the  affair  was 
mine,  primarily. 

"Wait  just  inside  the  door,"  I  directed,  "and  if  Sulli- 
van comes,  or  anybody  that  answers  his  description, 
grab  him  without  ceremony  and  ask  him  questions 
afterwards." 

The  apartment,  save  in  the  hallway,  was  unlighted. 
By  one  of  those  freaks  of  arrangement  possible  only 
in  the  modern  flat,  I  found  the  kitchen  first,  and  was 
struck  a  smart  and  unexpected  blow  by  a  swinging 
door.  I  carried  a  handful  of  matches,  and  by  the  time 
I  had  passed  through  a  butler's  pantry  and  a  refrigera- 
tor room  I  was  completely  lost  in  the  darkness.  Until 
then  the  situation  had  been  merely  uncomfortable; 
suddenly  it  became  grisly.  From  somewhere  near 
came  a  long-sustained  groan,  followed  almost  instantly 
by  the  crash  of  something — glass  or  china — on  the 
floor. 

I  struck  a  fresh  match,  and  found  myself  in  a  nar- 
row rear  hallway.  Behind  me  was  the  door  by  which 
I  must  have  come;  with  a  keen  desire  to  get  back  to 
the  place  I  had  started  from,  I  opened  the  door  and 
attempted  to  cross  the  room.  I  thought  I  had  kept 
my  sense  of  direction,  but  I  crashed  without  warning 
into  what,  from  the  resulting  jangle,  was  the  dining- 
table,  probably  laid  for  dinner.  I  cursed  my  stupidity 
in  getting  into  such  a  situation,  and  I  cursed  my  nerves 
for  making  my  hand  shake  when  I  tried  to  strike  a 
match.  The  groan  had  not  been  repeated. 


256     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  braced  myself  against  the  table  and  struck  the 
match  sharply  against  the  sole  of  my  shoe.  It  flickered 
faintly  and  went  out.  And  then,  without  the  slightest 
warning,  another  dish  went  off  the  table.  It  fell  with 
a  thousand  splinterings ;  the  very  air  seemed  broken 
into  crashing  waves  of  sound.  I  stood  still,  braced 
against  the  table,  holding  the  red  end  of  the  dying 
match,  and  listened.  I  had  not  long  to  wait ;  the  groan 
came  again,  and  I  recognized  it,  the  cry  of  a  dog  in 
straits.  I  breathed  again. 

"Come,  old  fellow,"  I  said.  "Come  on,  old  man 
"Let's  have  a  look  at  you." 

I  could  hear  the  thud  of  his  tail  on  the  floor,  but  he 
did  not  move.  He  only  whimpered.  There  is  some- 
thing companionable  in  the  presence  of  a  dog,  and  I 
fancied  this  dog  in  trouble.  Slowly  I  began  to  work 
my  way  around  the  table  toward  him. 

"Good  boy,"  I  said,  as  he  whimpered.  "We'll  find 
the  light,  which  ought  to  be  somewhere  or  other  around 
here,  and  then — " 

I  stumbled  over  something,  and  I  drew  back  my 
foot  almost  instantly.  "Did  I  step  on  you,  old  man?" 
I  exclaimed,  and  bent  to  pat  him.  I  remember  straight- 
ening suddenly  and  hearing  the  dog  pad  softly  toward 
me  around  the  table.  I  recall  even  that  I  had  put  the 
matches  down  and  could  not  find  them.  Then,  with  a 
bursting  horror  of  the  room  and  its  contents,  of  the 
gibbering  dark  around  me,  I  turned  and  made  for  the 
door  by  which  I  had  entered. 

I  could  not  find  it.     I  felt  along  the  endless  wain- 


IN  THE  DINING-ROOM          257 

scoting,  past  miles  of  wall.  The  dog  was  beside  me, 
I  think,  but  he  was  part  and  parcel  now,  to  my  excited 
mind,  with  the  Thing  under  the  table.  And  when, 
after  aeons  of  search,  I  found  a  knob  and  stumbled 
into  the  reception  hall,  I  was  as  nearly  in  a  panic  as 
any  man  could  be. 

I  was  myself  again  in  a  second,  and4  by  the  light 
from  the  hall  I  led  the  way  back  to  the  tragedy  I  had 
stumbled  on.  Bronson  still  sat  at  the  table,  his  elbows 
propped  on  it,  his  cigarette  still  lighted,  burning  a  hole 
in  the  cloth.  Partly  under  the  table  lay  Mrs.  Conway, 
face  down.  The  dog  stood  over  her  and  wagged  his 
tail. 

McKnight  pointed  silently  to  a  large  copper  ash- 
tray, filled  with  ashes  and  charred  bits  of  paper. 

"The  notes,  probably,"  he  said  ruefully.  "He  got 
them  after  all,  and  burned  them  before  her.  It  was 
more  than  she  could  stand.  Stabbed  him  first  and 
then  herself." 

Hotchkiss  got  up  and  took  off  his  hat.  "They  are 
dead,"  he  announced  solemnly,  and  took  his  note-book 
out  of  his  hatband. 

McKnight  and  I  did  the  only  thing  we  could  think 
of— drove  Hotchkiss  and  the  dog  out  of  the  room, 
and  closed  and  locked  the  door.  "It's  a  matter  for 
the  police,"  McKnight  asserted.  "I  suppose  you've  got 
an  officer  tied  to  you  somewhere,  Lawrence?  You 
usually  have." 

We  left  Hotchkiss  in  charge  and  went  down-stairs. 
It  was  McKnight  who  first  saw  Johnson,  leaning 


258      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

against  a  park  railing  across  the  street,  and  called  him 
over.  We  told  him  in  a  few  words  what  we  had  found, 
and  he  grinned  at  me  cheerfully. 

"After  while,  in  a  few  weeks  or  months,  Mr.  Blake- 
ley,"  he  said,  "when  you  get  tired  of  monkeying  around 
with  the  blood-stain  and  finger-print  specialist  up-stairs, 
you  come  to  me.  I've  had  that  fellow  you  want  under 
surveillance  for  ten  days !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FINER  DETAILS 

AT  ten  minutes  before  two  the  following  day,  Mon- 
day, I  arrived  at  my  office.  I  had  spent  the  morn- 
ing putting  my  affairs  in  shape,  and  in  a  trip  to  the 
stable.  The  afternoon  would  see  me  either  a  free  man 
or  a  prisoner  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time,  and,  in 
spite  of  Johnson's  promise  to  produce  Sullivan,  I  was 
more  prepared  for  the  latter  than  the  former. 

Blobs  was  watching  for  me  outside  the  door,  and 
it  was  clear  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  border- 
ing on  delirium.  He  did  nothing,  however,  save  to 
tip  me  a  wink  that  meant  "As  man  to  man,  I'm  for 
you."  I  was  too  much  engrossed  either  to  reprove  him 
or  return  the  courtesy,  but  I  heard  him  follow  me  down 
the  hall  to  the  small  room  where  we  keep  outgrown 
lawbooks,  typewriter  supplies  and,  incidentally,  our 
wraps.  I  was  wondering  vaguely  if  I  would  ever  hang 
my  hat  on  its  nail  again,  when  the  door  closed  behind 
me.  It  shut  firmly,  without  any  particular  amount 
of  sound,  and  I  was  left  in  the  dark.  I  groped  my  way 
to  it,  irritably,  to  find  it  locked  on  the  outside.  I  shook 
it  frantically,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  sibilant  whisper 
through  the  keyhole. 

"Keep  quiet,"  Blobs  was  saying  huskily.  "You're 
in  deadly  peril.  The  police  are  waiting  in  your  office, 
259 


260     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

three  of  'em.  I'm  goin'  to  lock  the  whole  bunch  in 
and  throw  the  key  out  of  the  window." 

"Come  back  here,  you  imp  of  Satan!"  I  called 
furiously,  but  I  could  hear  him  speeding  down  the  cor- 
ridor, and  the  slam  of  the  outer  office  door  by  which  he 
always  announced  his  presence.  And  so  I  stood  there 
in  that  ridiculous  cupboard,  hot  with  the  heat  of  a 
steaming  September  day,  musty  with  the  smell  of  old 
leather  bindings,  littered  with  broken  overshoes  and 
handleless  umbrellas.  I  was  apoplectic  with  rage  one 
minute,  and  choked  with  laughter  the  next.  It  seemed 
an  hour  before  Blobs  came  back. 

He  came  without  haste,  strutting  with  new  dignity, 
and  paused  outside  my  prison  door. 

"Well,  I  guess  that  will  hold  them  for  a  while,"  he 
remarked  comfortably,  and  proceeded  to  turn  the  key. 
"I've  got  'em  fastened  up  like  sardines  in  a  can!"  he 
explained,  working  with  the  lock.  "Gee  whiz !  you'd 
ought  to  hear  'em !"  When  he  got  his  breath  after  the 
shaking  I  gave  him,  he  began  to  splutter.  "How'd 
I  know?"  he  demanded  sulkily.  "You  nearly  broke 
your  neck  gettin'  away  the  other  time.  And  I  haven't 
got  the  old  key.  It's  lost." 

"Where's  it  lost?"  I  demanded,  with  another  ges- 
ture toward  his  coat  collar. 

"Down  the  elevator  shaft."  There  was  a  gleam  of 
indignant  satisfaction  through  his  tears  of  rage  and 
humiliation. 

And  so,  while  he  hunted  the  key  in  the  debris  at 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  I  quieted  his  prisoners  with 


FINER  DETAILS  261 

the  assurance  that  the  lock  had  slipped,  and  that  they 
would  be  free  as  lords  as  soon  as  we  could  find  the 
janitor  with  a  pass-key.  Stuart  went  down  finally  and 
discovered  Blobs,  with  the  key  in  his  pocket,  telling 
the  engineer  how  he  had  tried  to  save  me  from  arrest 
and  failed.  When  Stuart  came  up  he  was  almost 
cheerful,  but  Blobs  did  not  appear  again  that  day. 

Simultaneous  with  the  finding  of  the  key  came 
Hotchkiss,  and  we  went  in  together.  I  shook  hands 
with  two  men  who,  with  Hotchkiss,  made  a  not  very 
animated  group.  The  taller  one,  an  oldish  man,  lean 
and  hard,  announced  his  errand  at  once. 

"A  Pittsburg  warrant?"  I  inquired,  unlocking  my 
cigar  drawer. 

"Yes.  Allegheny  County  has  assumed  jurisdiction, 
the  exact  locality  where  the  crime  was  committed  be- 
ing in  doubt."  He  seemed  to  be  the  spokesman.  The 
other,  shorter  and  rotund,  kept  an  amiable  silence. 
"We  hope  you  will  see  the  wisdom  of  waiving  extra- 
dition," he  went  on.  "It  will  save  time." 

"I'll  come,  of  course,"  I  agreed.  "The  sooner  the 
better.  But  I  want  you  to  give  me  an  hour  here, 
gentlemen.  I  think  we  can  interest  you.  Have  a 
cigar?" 

The  lean  man  took  a  cigar;  the  rotund  man  took 
three,  putting  two  in  his  pocket. 

"How  about  the  catch  of  that  door?"  he  inquired 
jovially.  "Any  danger  of  it  going  off  again?"  Really, 
considering  the  circumstances,  they  were  remarkably 
cheerful.  Hotchkiss,  however,  was  not.  He  paced  the 


262      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

floor  uneasily,  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails.  The  ar- 
rival of  McKnight  created  a  diversion;  he  carried  a 
long  package  and  a  corkscrew,  and  shook  hands  with 
the  police  and  opened  the  bottle  with  a  single  gesture. 

"I  always  want  something  to  cheer  on  these  occa- 
sions," he  said.  "Where's  the  water,  Blakeley? 
Everybody  ready?"  Then  in  French  he  toasted  the 
two  detectives. 

"To  your  eternal  discomfiture,"  he  said,  bowing 
ceremoniously.  "May  you  go  home  and  never  come 
back !  If  you  take  Monsieur  Blakeley  with  you,  I  hope 
you  choke." 

The  lean  man  nodded  gravely.  "Prosit,"  he  said. 
But  the  fat  one  leaned  back  and  laughed  consumedly. 

Hotchkiss  finished  a  mental  synopsis  of  his  position, 
and  put  down  his  glass.  "Gentlemen,"  he  said  pom- 
pously, "within  five  minutes  the  man  you  want  will 
be  here,  a  murderer  caught  in  a  net  of  evidence  so 
fine  that  a  mosquito  could  not  get  through." 

The  detectives  glanced  at  each  other  solemnly.  Had 
they  not  in  their  possession  a  sealskin  bag  containing 
a  wallet  and  a  bit  of  gold  chain,  which,  by  putting 
the  crime  on  me,  would  leave  a  gap  big  enough  for 
Sullivan  himself  to  crawl  through? 

"Why  don't  you  say  your  little  speech  before  John- 
son brings  the  other  man,  Lawrence?"  McKnight  in- 
quired. "They  won't  believe  you,  but  it  will  help 
them  to  understand  what  is  coming." 

"You  understand,  of  course,"  the  lean  man  put  in 
gravely,  "that  what  you  say  may  be  used  against  you." 


FINER  DETAILS  263 

"I'll  take  the  risk,"  I  answered  impatiently. 

It  took  some  time  to  tell  the  story  of  my  worse  than 
useless  trip  to  Pittsburg,  and  its  sequel.  They  listened 
gravely,  without  interruption. 

"Mr.  Hotchkiss  here,"  I  finished,  "believes  that  the 
man  Sullivan,  whom  we  are  momentarily  expecting, 
committed  the  crime.  Mr.  McKnight  is  inclined  to  im- 
plicate Mrs.  Conway,  who  stabbed  Bronson  and  then 
herself  last  night.  As  for  myself,  I  am  open  to  con- 
viction." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  stout  detective  quizzically. 
And  then  Alison  was  announced.  My  impulse  to  go 
out  and  meet  her  was  forestalled  by  the  detectives, 
who  rose  when  I  did.  McKnight,  therefore,  brought 
her  in,  and  I  met  her  at  the  door. 

"I  have  put  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble,"  I  said 
contritely,  when  I  saw  her  glance  around  the  room. 
"I  wish  I  had  not—" 

"It  is  only  right  that  I  should  come,"  she  replied, 
looking  up  at  me.  "I  am  the  unconscious  cause  of 
most  of  it,  I  am  afraid.  Mrs.  Dallas  is  going  to  wait 
in  the  outer  office." 

I  presented  Hotchkiss  and  the  two  detectives,  who 
eyed  her  with  interest.  In  her  poise,  her  beauty, 
even  in  her  gown,  I  fancy  she  represented  a  new  type 
to  them.  They  remained  standing  until  she  sat  down. 

"I  have  brought  the  necklace,"  she  began,  holding 
out  a  white-wrapped  box,  "as  you  asked  me  to." 

I  passed  it,  unopened,  to  the  detectives.  "The  neck- 
lace from  which  was  broken  the  fragment  you  found 


264      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

in  the  sealskin  bag,"  I  explained.  "Miss  West  found 
it  on  the  floor  of  the  car,  near  lower  ten." 

"When  did  you  find  it?"  asked  the  lean  detective, 
bending  forward. 

"In  the  morning,  not  long  before  the  wreck." 

"Did  you  ever  see  it  before?" 

"I  am  not  certain,"  she  replied.  "I  have  seen  one 
very  much  like  it."  Her  tone  was  troubled.  She 
glanced  at  me  as  if  for  help,  but  I  was  powerless. 

"Where?"     The  detective  was  watching  her  closely. 

At  that  moment  there  came  an  interruption.  The 
door  opened  without  ceremony,  and  Johnson  ushered 
in  a  tall,  blond  man,  a  stranger  to  all  of  us.  I  glanced 
at  Alison;  she  was  pale,  but  composed  and  scornful. 
She  met  the  new-comer's  eyes  full,  and,  caught  un- 
awares, he  took  a  hasty  backward  step. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Sullivan,"  McKnight  beamed  cor- 
dially. "Have  a  cigar?  I  beg  your  pardon,  Alison, 
do  you  mind  this  smoke?" 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said  composedly.  Sullivan  had  had 
a  second  to  sound  his  bearings. 

"No — no,  thanks,"  he  mumbled.  "If  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  explain — " 

"But  that's  what  you're  to  do,"  McKnight  said 
cheerfully,  pulling  up  a  chair.  "You've  got  the  most 
attentive  audience  you  could  ask.  These  two  gentlemen 
are  detectives  from  Pittsburg,  and  we  are  all  curious 
to  know  the  finer  details  of  what  happened  on  the  car 
Ontario  two  weeks  ago,  the  night  your  father-in-law 
was  murdered."  Sullivan  gripped  the  arms  of  his 


FINER  DETAILS  265 

chair.  "We  are  not  prejudiced,  either.  The  gentle- 
men from  Pittsburg  are  betting  on  Mr.  Blakeley,  over 
there.  Mr.  Hotchkiss,  the  gentleman  by  the  radiator, 
is  ready  to  place  ten  to  one  odds  on  you.  And  some 
of  us  have  still  other  theories." 

"Gentlemen,"  Sullivan  said  slowly,  "I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  I  did  not  kill  Simon  Harrington, 
and  that  I  do  not  know  who  did." 

"Fiddlededee !"  cried  Hotchkiss,  bustling  forward. 
"Why,  I  can  tell  you — "  But  McKnight  pushed  him 
firmly  into  a  chair  and  held  him  there. 

"I  am  ready  to  plead  guilty  to  the  larceny,"  Sullivan 
went  on.  "I  took  Mr.  Blakeley's  clothes,  I  admit.  If 
I  can  reimburse  him  in  any  way  for  the  inconven- 
ience— " 

The  stout  detective  was  listening  with  his  mouth 
open.  "Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  demanded,  "that 
you  got  into  Mr.  Blakeley's  berth,  as  he  contends,  took 
his  clothes  and  forged  notes,  and  left  the  train  before 
the  wreck?" 

"Yes." 

"T,he  notes,  then?" 

"I  gave  them  to  Bronson  yesterday.  Much  good 
they  did  him !"  bitterly.  We  were  all  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  two  detectives  were  adjusting  themselves 
with  difficulty  to  a  new  point  of  view;  Sullivan  was 
looking  dejectedly  at  the  floor,  his  hands  hanging  loose 
between  his  knees.  I  was  watching  Alison ;  from  where 
I  stood,  behind  her,  I  could  almost  touch  the  soft  hair 
behind  her  ear. 


266     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"I  have  no  intention  of  pressing  any  charge  against 
you,"  I  said  with  forced  civility,  for  my  hands  were 
itching  to  get  at  him,  "if  you  will  give  us  a  clear  ac- 
count of  what  happened  on  the  Ontario  that  night."  . 

Sullivan  raised  his  handsome,  haggard  head  and 
looked  around  at  me.  "I've  seen  you  before,  haven't 
I?"  he  asked.  "Weren't  you  an  uninvited  guest  at 
the  Laurels  a  few  days — or  nights — ago?  The  cat, 
you  remember,  and  the  rug  that  slipped?" 

"I  remember,"  I  said  shortly.  He  glanced  from 
me  to  Alison  and  quickly  away. 

"The  truth  can't  hurt  me,"  he  said,  "but  it's  devilish 
unpleasant.  Alison,  you  know  all  this.  You  would 
better  go  out." 

His  use  of  her  name  crazed  me.  I  stepped  in  front 
of  her  and  stood  over  him.  "You  will  not  bring  Miss 
West  into  the  conversation,"  I  threatened,  "and  she 
will  stay  if  she  wishes." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said  with  assumed  indifference. 

Hotchkiss  just  then  escaped  from  Richey's  grasp 
and  crossed  the  room. 

"Did  you  ever  wear  glasses?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Never."  Sullivan  glanced  with  some  contempt  at 
mine. 

"I'd  better  begin  by  going  back  a  little,"  he  went 
on  sullenly.  "I  suppose  you  know  I  was  married  to 
Ida  Harrington  about  five  years  ago.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  and  I  thought  a  lot  of  her.  But  her  father  op- 
posed the  marriage — he'd  never  liked  me,  and  he  re- 
fused to  make  any  sort  of  settlement. 


FINER  DETAILS 267 

"I  had  thought,  of  course,  that  there  would  be 
money,  and  it  was  a  bad  day  when  I  found  out  I'd 
made  a  mistake.  My  sister  was  wild  with  disappoint- 
ment. We  were  pretty  hard  up,  my  sister  and  I." 

I  was  watching  Alison.  Her  hands  were  tightly 
clasped  in  her  lap,  and  she  was  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  cheerless  roof  below.  She  had  set  her  lips 
a  little,  but  that  was  all. 

"You  understand,  of  course,  that  I'm  not  defending 
myself,"  went  on  the  sullen  voice.  "The  day  came 
when  old  Harrington  put  us  both  out  of  the  house  at 
the  point  of  a  revolver,  and  I  threatened — I  suppose 
you  know  that,  too — I  threatened  to  kill  him. 

"My  sister  and  I  had  hard  times  after  that.  We 
lived  on  the  continent  for  a  while.  I  was  at  Monte 
Carlo  and  she  was  in  Italy.  She  met  a  young  lady 
there,  the  granddaughter  of  a  steel  manufacturer  and 
an  heiress,  and  she  sent  for  me.  When  I  got  to  Rome 
the  girl  was  gone.  Last  winter  I  was  all  in — social 
secretary  to  an  Englishman,  a  wholesale  grocer  with 
a  new  title,  but  we  had  a  row,  and  I  came  home.  I 
went  out  to  the  Heaton  boys'  ranch  in  Wyoming,  and 
met  Bronson  there.  He  lent  me  money,  and  I've  been 
doing  his  dirty  work  ever  since." 

Sullivan  got  up  then  and  walked  slowly  forward  and 
back  as  he  talked,  his  eyes  on  the  faded  pattern  of  the 
office  rug. 

"If  you  want  to  live  in  hell,"  he  said  savagely,  "put 
yourself  in  another  man's  power.  Bronson  got  into 
trouble,  forging  John  Gilmore's  name  to  those  notes, 


268     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

and  in  some  way  he  learned  that  a  man  was  bringing 
the  papers  back  to  Washington  on  the  Flier.  He  even 
learned  the  number  of  his  berth,  and  the  night  before 
the  wreck,  just  as  I  was  boarding  the  train,  I  got  a 
telegram." 

Hotchkiss  stepped  forward  once  more  importantly, 

"Which  read,  I  think:  'Man  with  papers  in  lower 
ten,  car  seven.  Get  them.'  " 

Sullivan  looked  at  the  little  man  with  sulky  blue 
eyes. 

"It  was  something  like  that,  anyhow.  But  it  was  a 
nasty  business,  and  it  made  matters  worse  that  he 
didn't  care  that  a  telegram  which  must  pass  through 
a  half  dozen  hands  was  more  or  less  incriminating 
to  me. 

"Then,  to  add  to  the  unpleasantness  of  my  position, 
just  after  we  boarded  the  train — I  was  accompanying 
my  sister  and  this  young  lady,  Miss  West — a  woman 
touched  me  on  the  sleeve,  and  I  turned  to  face — my 
wife! 

"That  took  away  my  last  bit  of  nerve.  I  told  my 
sister,  and  you  can  understand  she  was  in  a  bad  way, 
too.  We  knew  what  it  meant.  Ida  had  heard  that 
I  was  going — " 

He  stopped  and  glanced  uneasily  at  Alison. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  coldly.  "It  is  too  late  to  shield 
me%  The  time  to  have  done  that  was  when  I  was  your 
guest." 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes  turned  carefully  away 
from  my  face,  which  must  have  presented  certainly  any- 


FINER  DETAILS 269 

thing  but  a  pleasant  sight.  "Miss  West  was  going  to 
do  me  the  honor  to  marry  me,  and — " 

"You  scoundrel!"  I  burst  forth,  thrusting  past  Ali- 
son West's  chair.  "You — you  infernal  cur !" 

One  of  the  detectives  got  up  and  stood  between  us. 

"You  must  remember,  Mr.  Blakeley,  that  you  are 
forcing  this  story  from  this  man.  These  details  are 
unpleasant,  but  important.  You  were  going  to  marry 
this  young  lady,"  he  said,  turning  to  Sullivan,  "al- 
though you  already  had  a  wife  living?" 

"It  was  my  sister's  plan,  and  I  was  in  a  bad  way 
for  money.  If  I  could  marry,  secretly,  a  wealthy  girl 
and  go  to  Europe,  it  was  unlikely  that  Ida — that  is, 
Mrs.  Sullivan — would  hear  of  it. 

"So  it  was  more  than  a  shock  to  see  my  wife  on  the 
train,  and  to  realize  from  her  face  that  she  knew  what 
was  going  on.  I  don't  know  yet,  unless  some  of  the 
servants — well,  never  mind  that. 

"It  meant  that  the  whole  thing  had  gone  up.  Old 
Harrington  had  carried  a  gun  for  me  for  years,  and 
the  same  train  wouldn't  hold  both  of  us.  Of  course, 
I  thought  that  he  was  in  the  coach  just  behind  ours." 

Hotchkiss  was  leaning  forward  now,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed, his  thin  lips  drawn  to  a  line. 

"Are  you  left-handed,  Mr.  Sullivan?"  he  asked. 

Sullivan  stopped  in  surprise. 

"No,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Can't  do  anything  with  my 
left  hand."  Hotchkiss  subsided,  crestfallen  but  alert. 
"I  tore  up  that  cursed  telegram,  but  I  was  afraid  to 
throw  the  scraps  away.  Then  I  looked  around  for 


270      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

lower  teru  It  was  almost  exactly  across — my  berth  was 
lower  seven,  and  it  was,  of  course,  a  bit  of  exceptional 
luck  for  me  that  the  car  was  number  seven." 

"Did  you  tell  your  sister  of  the  telegram  from  Bron- 
son?"  I  asked. 

"No.  It  would  do  no  good,  and  she  was  in  a  bad 
way  without  that  to  make  her  worse." 

"Your  sister  was  killed,  1  think."  The  shorter  de- 
tective took  a  small  package  from  his  pocket  and  held 
it  in  his  hand,  snapping  the  rubber  band  which  held  it, 

"Yes,  she  was  killed,"  Sullivan  said  soberly.  "What 
I  say  now  can  do  her  no  harm." 

He  stopped  to  push  back  the  heavy  hair  which 
dropped  over  his  forehead,  and  went  on  more  con- 
nectedly. 

"It  was  late,  after  midnight,  and  we  went  at  once 
to  our  berths.  I  undressed,  and  then  I  lay  there  for 
an  hour,  wondering  how  I  was  going  to  get  the  notes. 
Some  one  in  lower  nine  was  restless  and  wide  awake, 
but  finally  became  quiet. 

"The  man  in  ten  was  sleeping  heavily.  I  could  hear 
his  breathing,  and  it  seemed  to  be  only  a  question  of 
getting  across  and  behind  the  curtains  of  his  berth 
without  being  seen.  After  that,  it  was  a  mere  matter 
of  quiet  searching. 

"The  car  became  very  still.  I  was  about  to  try  for 
the  other  berth,  when  some  one  brushed  softly  past, 
and  I  lay  back  again. 

"Finally,  however,  when  things  had  been  quiet  for 
a  time,  I  got  up,  and  after  looking  along  the  aisle,  I 


FINER  DETAILS  271 

slipped  behind  the  curtains  of  lower  ten.  You  under- 
stand, Mr.  Blakeley,  that  I  thought  you  were  in  lower 
ten,  with  the  notes." 

I  nodded  curtly. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  defend  myself,"  he  went  on.  "I 
was  ready  to  steal  the  notes — I  had  to.  But  murder  1" 

He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Well,  I  slipped  across  and  behind  the  curtains.  It 
was  very  still.  The  man  in  ten  didn't  move,  although 
my  heart  was  thumping  until  I  thought  he  would  hear 
it. 

"I  felt  around  cautiously.  It  was  perfectly  dark, 
and  I  came  across  a  bit  of  chain,  about  as  long  as  my 
finger.  It  seemed  a  queer  thing  to  find  there,  and  it 
was  sticky,  too." 

He  shuddered,  and  I  could  see  Alison's  hands  clench- 
ing and  unclenching  with  the  strain. 

"All  at  once  it  struck  me  that  the  man  was  strangely 
silent,  and  I  think  I  lost  my  nerve.  Anyhow,  I  drew 
the  curtains  open  a  little,  and  let  the  light  fall  on  my 
hands.  They  were  red,  blood-red." 

He  leaned  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  and 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  lived  over  again 
the  awful  events  of  that  more  than  awful  night. 

The  stout  detective  had  let  his  cigar  go  out ;  he  was 
still  drawing  at  it  nervously.  Richey  had  picked  up 
a  paper-weight  and  was  tossing  it  from  hand  to  hand ; 
when  it  slipped  and  fell  to  the  floor,  a  startled  shudder 
passed  through  the  room. 

"There  was  something  glittering  in  there,"  Sullivan 


272      THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

resumed,  "and  on  impulse  I  picked  it  up.  Then  I 
dropped  the  curtains  and  stumbled  back  to  my  own 
berth." 

"Where  you  wiped  your  hands  on  the  bed-clothing 
and  stuck  the  dirk  into  the  pillow."  Hotchkiss  was 
seeing  his  carefully  built  structure  crumbling  to  pieces, 
and  he  looked  chagrined. 

"I  suppose  I  did — I'm  not  very  clear  about  what 
happened  then.  But  when  I  rallied  a  little  I  saw  a 
Russia  leather  wallet  lying  in  the  aisle  almost  at  my 
feet,  and,  like  a  fool,  I  stuck  it,  with  the  bit  of  chain, 
into  my  bag. 

"I  sat  there,  shivering,  for  what  seemed  hours.  Jt 
was  still  perfectly  quiet,  except  for  some  one  snoring. 
I  thought  that  would  drive  me  crazy. 

"The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  worse  things  looked. 
The  telegram  was  the  first  thing  against  me — it  would 
put  the  police  on  my  track  at  once,  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  man  in  lower  ten  had  been  killed. 

"Then  I  remembered  the  notes,  and  I  took  out  the 
wallet  and  opened  it." 

He  stopped  for  a  minute,  as  if  the  recalling  of  the 
next  occurrence  was  almost  beyond  him. 

"I  took  out  the  wallet,"  he  said  simply,  "and,  opening 
it,  held  it  to  the  light.  In  gilt  letters  was  the  name, 
Simon  Harrington." 

The  detectives  were  leaning  forward  now,  their  eyes 
on  his  face. 

"Things  seemed  to  whirl  around  for  a  while.    I  sat 


FINER  DETAILS 273 

there  almost  paralyzed,  wondering  what  this  new  de- 
velopment meant  for  me. 

"My  wife,  I  knew,  would  swear  I  had  killed  her 
father ;  nobody  would  be  likely  to  believe  the  truth. 

"Do  you  believe  me  now?"  He  looked  around  at  us 
defiantly.  "I  am  telling  the  absolute  truth,  and  not  one 
of  you  believes  me ! 

"After  a  bit  the  man  in  lower  nine  got  up  and  walked 
along  the  aisle  toward  the  smoking  compartment.  I 
heard  him  go,  and,  leaning  from  my  berth,  watched 
him  out  of  sight. 

"It  was  then  I  got  the  idea  of  changing  berths  with 
him,  getting  into  his  clothes,  and  leaving  the  train.  I 
give  you  my  word  I  had  no  idea  of  throwing  suspicion 
on  him." 

Alison  looked  scornfully  incredulous,  but  I  felt  that 
the  man  was  telling  the  truth. 

"I  changed  the  numbers  of  the  berths,  and  it  worked 
well.  I  got  into  the  other  man's  berth,  and  he  came 
back  to  mine.  The  rest  was  easy.  I  dressed  in  his 
clothes — luckily,  they  fitted — and  jumped  the  train  not 
far  from  Baltimore,  just  before  the  wreck." 

"There  is  something  else  you  must  clear  up,"  I  said. 

"Why  did  you  try  to  telephone  me  from  M ,  and 

>why  did  you  change  your  mind  about  the  message?" 

He  looked  astounded. 

"You  knew  I  was  at  M ?"  he  stammered. 

"Yes,  we  traced  you.     What  about  the  message?" 

"Well,  it  was  this  way:  of  course,  I  did  not  know 
your  name,  Mr.  Blakeley.  The  telegram  said,  'Man 


274     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN , 

with  papers  in  lower  ten,  car  seven,"  and  after  I  had 
made  what  I  considered  my  escape,  I  began  to  think  I 
had  left  the  man  in  my  berth  in  a  bad  way. 

"He  would  probably  be  accused  of  the  crime.  So, 
although  when  the  wreck  occurred  I  supposed  every 
one  connected  with  the  affair  had  been  killed,  there 
was  a  chance  that  you  had  survived.  I've  not  been 
of  much  account,  but  I  didn't  want  a  man  to  swing 
because  I'd  left  him  in  my  place.  Besides,  I  began 
to  have  a  theory  of  my  own. 

"As  we  entered  the  car  a  tall,  dark  woman  passed 
us,  with  a  glass  of  water  in  her  hand,  and  I  vaguely 
remembered  her.  She  was  amazingly  like  Blanche 
Conway. 

"If  she,  too,  thought  the  man  with  the  notes  was 
in  lower  ten,  it  explained  a  lot,  including  that  piece 
of  a  woman's  necklace.  She  was  a  fury,  Blanche  Con- 
way,  capable  of  anything." 

"Then  why  did  you  countermand  that  message?" 
I  asked  curiously. 

"When  I  got  to  the  Carter  house,  and  got  to  bed; — 
I  had  sprained  my  ankle  in  the  jump — I  went  through 
the  alligator  bag  I  had  taken  from  lower  nine.  When 
I  found  your  name,  I  sent  the  first  message.  Then, 
soon  after,  I  came  across  the  notes.  It  seemed  too  good 
to  be  true,  and  I  was  crazy  for  fear  the  message  had 
gone. 

"At  first  I  was  going  to  send  them  to  Bronson ;  then 
I  began  <to  see  what  the  possession  of  the  notes  meant 


FINER  DETAILS 275 

to  me.  It  meant  power  over  Bronson,  money,  influ- 
ence, everything.  He  was  a  devil,  that  man." 

"Well,  he's  %t  home  now,"  said  McKnight,  and  we 
were  glad  to  laugh  and  relieve  the  tension. 

Alison  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  sight  of  the  man  she  had  so  nearly  married, 
and  I  furtively  touched  one  of  the  soft  little  curls 
that  nestled  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"When  I  was  able  to  walk,"  went  on  the  sullen  voice, 
"I  came  at  once  to  Washington.  I  tried  to  sell  the 
notes  to  Bronson,  but  he  was  almost  at  the  end  of  his 
rope.  Not  even  my  threat  to  send  them  back  to  you, 
Mr.  Blakeley,  could  make  him  meet  my  figure.  He 
didn't  have  the  money." 

McKnight  was  triumphant. 

"I  think  you  gentlemen  will  see  reason  in  my  theory 
now,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Conway  wanted  the  notes  to 
force  a  legal  marriage,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

The  detective  with  the  small  package  carefully  rolled 
off  the  rubber  band,  and  unwrapped  it.  I  held  my 
breath  as  he  took  out,  first,  the  Russia  leather  wallet. 

"These  things,  Mr.  Blakeley,  we  found  in  the  seal- 
skin bag  Mr.  Sullivan  says  he  left  you.  This  wallet, 
Mr.  Sullivan — is  this  the  one  yon  found  on  the  floor 
of  the  car?" 

Sullivan  opened  it,  and,  glancing  at  the  name  inside, 
"Simon  Harrington,"  nodded  affirmatively. 

"And  this,"  went  on  the  detective — "this  is  a  piece 
of  gold  chain?" 


276     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"It  seems  to  be,"  said  Sullivan,  recoiling  at  the  blood- 
stained end. 

"This,  I  believe,  is  the  dagger."  He  held  it  up, 
and  Alison  gave  a  faint  cry  of  astonishment  and  dis- 
may. Sullivan's  face  grew  ghastly,  and  he  sat  down 
weakly  on  the  nearest  chair. 

The  detective  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  then  at  Ali- 
son's agitated  face. 

"Where  have  you  seen  this  dagger  before,  young 
lady?"  he  asked,  kindly  enough. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!"  she  gasped  breathlessly,  her 
eyes  turned  on  Sullivan.  "It's — it's  too  terrible!" 

"Tell  him,"  I  advised,  leaning  over  to  her.  "It  will 
be  found  out  later,  anyhow." 

"Ask  him,"  she  said,  nodding  toward  Sullivan, 
.  The  detective  unwrapped  the  small  box  Alison  had 
brought,  disclosing  the  trampled  necklace  and  broken 
chain.  With  clumsy  fingers  he  spread  it  on  the  table 
and  fitted  into  place  the  bit  of  chain.  There  could  be 
no  doubt  that  it  belonged  there. 

"Where  did  you  find  that  chain?"  Sullivan  asked 
hoarsely,  looking  for  the  first  time  at  Alison. 

"On  the  floor,  near  the  murdered  man's  berth." 

"Now,  Mr.  Sullivan,"  said  the  detective  civilly,  "I 
believe  you  can  tell  us,  in  the  light  of  these  two  exhibits, 
who  really  did  murder  Simon  Harrington." 

Sullivan  looked  again  at  the  dagger,  a  sharp  little 
bit  of  steel  with  a  Florentine  handle.  Then  he  picked 
up  the  locket  and  pressed  a  hidden  spring  under  one 


FINER  DETAILS  277 

of  the  cameos.    Inside,  very  neatly  engraved,  was  the 
name  and  a  date. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  his  face  ghastly,  "it  is  of  no 
use  for  me  to  attempt  a  denial.  The  dagger  and  neck- 
lace belonged  to  my  Bister,  Alice  Curtis !" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AND  ONLY  ONE  ARM 

HOTCHKISS  was  the  first  to  break  the  tension. 
"Mr.  Sullivan,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "was  your 
sister  left-handed?" 

"Yes." 

Hotchkiss  put  away  his  note-book  and  looked  around 
with  an  air  of  triumphant  vindication.  It  gave  us  a 
chance  to  smile  and  look  relieved.  After  all,  Mrs. 
Curtis  was  dead.  It  was  the  happiest  solution  of  the 
unhappy  affair.  McKnight  brought  Sullivan  some 
whisky,  and  he  braced  up  a  little, 

"I  learned  through  the  papers  that  my  wife  was 
in  a  Baltimore  hospital,  and  yesterday  I  ventured  there 
to  see  her.  I  felt  if  she  would  help  me  to  keep  straight, 
that  now,  with  her  father  and  my  sister  both  dead,  we 
might  be  happy  together. 

"I  understand  now  what  puzzled  me  then.  It  seemed 
that  my  sister  went  into  the  next  car  and  tried  to  make 
my  wife  promise  not  to  interfere.  But  Ida — Mrs.  Sul- 
livan— was  firm,  of  course.  She  said  her  father  had 
papers,  certificates  and  so  on,  that  would  stop  the  mar- 
riage at  once. 

"She  said,  also,  that  her  father  was  in  our  car,  and 
that  there  would  be  the  mischief  to  pay  in  the  morning. 
It  was  probably  when  my  sister  tried  to  get  the  papers 
278 


AND  ONLY  ONE  ARM  279 

that  he  awakened,  and  she  had  to  do — what  she  did." 

It  was  over.  Save  for  a  technicality  or  two,  I  was 
a  free  man.  Alison  rose  quietly  and  prepared  to  go; 
the  men  stood  to  let  her  pass,  save  Sullivan  who  sat 
crouched  in  his  chair,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Hotchkiss,  who  had  been  tapping  the  desk  with  his 
pencil,  looked  up  abruptly  and  pointed  the  pencil  at 
me. 

"If  all  this  is  true,  and  I  believe  it  is, — then  who  was 
in  the  house  next  door,  Blakeley,  the  night  you  and 
Mr.  Johnson  searched?  You  remember,  you  said  it 
was  a  woman's  hand  at  the  trap  door." 

I  glanced  hastily  at  Johnson,  whose  face  was  im- 
passive. He  had  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door  and 
he  opened  it  before  he  spoke. 

"There  were  a  number  of  scratches  on  Mrs.  Con- 
way's  right  hand,"  he  observed  to  the  room  in  general. 
"Her  wrist  was  bandaged  and  badly  bruised." 

He  went  out  then,  but  he  turned  as  he  closed  the 
door  and  threw  at  me  a  glance  of  half -amused,  half- 
contemptuous  tolerance. 

McKnight  saw  Alison,  with  Mrs.  Dallas,  to  their 
carriage,  and  came  back  again.  The  gathering  in  the 
office  was  breaking  up.  Sullivan,  looking  worn  and 
old,  was  standing  by  the  window,  staring  at  the  broken 
necklace  in  his  hand.  When  he  saw  me  watching  him, 
he  put  it  on  the  desk  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"If  I  can  not  do  anything  more — "  he  hesitated. 

"I  think  you  have  done  about  enough,"  I  replied 
grimly,  and  he  went  out. 


280     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

I  believe  that  Richey  and  Hotchkiss  led  me  some- 
where to  dinner,  and  that,  for  fear  I  would  be  lonely 
without  him,  they  sent  for  Johnson.  And  I  recall  a 
spirited  discussion  in  which  Hotchkiss  tola  the  de- 
tective that  he  could  manage  certain  cases,  but  that 
he  lacked  induction.  Richey  and  I  were  mainly  silent. 
My  thoughts  would  slip  ahead  to  that  hour,  later  in  the 
evening,  when  I  should  see  Alison  again. 

I  dressed  in  savage  haste  finally,  and  was  so  particu- 
lar about  my  tie  that  Mrs.  Klopton  gave  up  in  despair. 

"I  wish,  until  your  arm  is  better,  that  you  would 
buy  the  kind  that  hooks  on,"  she  protested,  almost 
tearfully.  "I'm  sure  they  look  very  nice,  Mr.  Law- 
rence. My  late  husband  always — " 

"That's  a  lover's  knot  you've  tied  this  time,"  I 
snarled,  and,  jerking  open  the  bow  knot  she  had  so 
painfully  executed,  looked  out  the  window  for  Johnson 
— until  I  recalled  that  he  no  longer  belonged  in  my 
perspective.  I  ended  by  driving  frantically  to  the  club 
and  getting  George  to  do  it. 

I  was  late,  of  course.  The  drawing-room  and  library 
at  the  Dallas  home  were  empty.  I  could  hear  billiard 
balls  rolling  somewhere,  and  I  turned  the  other  way. 
I  found  Alison  at  last  on  the  balcony,  sitting  much  as 
she  had  that  night  on  the  beach, — her  chin  in  her  hands, 
her  eyes  fixed  unseeingly  on  the  trees  and  lights  of  the 
square  across.  She  was  even  whistling  a  little,  softly. 
But  this  time  the  plaintiveness  was  gone.  It  was  a 
tender  little  tune.  She  did  not  move,  as  I  stood  beside 
her,  looking  down.  And  now,  when  the  moment  had 


AND  ONLY  ONE  ARM          281 

come,  all  the  thousand  and  one  things  I  had  been  wait- 
ing to  say  forsook  me,  precipitately  beat  a  retreat,  and 
left  me  unsupported.  The  arc-moon  sent  little  fugi- 
tive lights  over  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her  gown. 

"Don't — do  that,"  I  said  unsteadily.  "You — you 
know  what  I  want  to  do  when  you  whistle!" 

She  glanced  up  at  me,  and  she  did  not  stop.  She 
did  not  stop!"  She  went  on  whistling  softly,  a  bit 
tremulously.  And  straightway  I  forgot  the  street,  the 
chance  of  passers-by,  the  voices  in  the  house  behind 
us.  "The  world  doesn't  hold  any  one  but  you,"  I 
said  reverently.  "It  is  our  world,  sweetheart.  I  love 
you." 

And  I  kissed  her. 

A  boy  was  whistling  on  the  pavement  below.  I  let 
her  go  reluctantly  and  sat  back  where  I  could  see  her. 

"I  haven't  done  this  the  way  I  intended  to  at  all," 
I  confessed.  "In  books  they  get  things  all  settled,  and 
then  kiss  the  lady." 

"Settled?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  about  getting  married  and  that  sort  of  thing," 
I  explained  with  elaborate  carelessness.  "We — we 
could  go  down  to  Bermuda — or — or  Jamaica,  say  in 
December." 

She  drew  her  hand  away  and  faced  me  squarely. 

"I  believe  you  are  afraid !"  she  declared.  "I  refuse 
to  marry  you  unless  you  propose  properly.  Everybody 
does  it.  And  it  is  a  woman's  privilege:  she  wants  to 
have  that  to  look  back  to." 

"Very  well,"  I  consented  with  an  exaggerated  sigh. 


282     THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN 

"If  you  will  promise  not  to  think  I  look  like  an  idiot, 
I  shall  do  it,  knee  and  all." 

I  had  to  pass  her  to  close  the  door  behind  us,  but 
when  I  kissed  her  again  she  protested  that  *we  were 
not  really  engaged. 

I  turned  to  look  down  at  her.  "It  is  a  terrible 
thing,"  I  said  exultantly,  "to  love  a  girl  the  way  I  love 
you,  and  to  have  only  one  arm!"  Then  I  closed  the 
door. 

From  across  the  street  there  came  a  sharp  crescendo 
whistle,  and  a  vaguely  familiar  figure  separated  itself 
from  the  park  railing. 

"Say,"  he  called,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "shall  I  throw 
the  key  down  the  elevator  shaft?" 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  o£fgp[^s£jftyt<|j^imped  below.  ' 


SEPTO 
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HOV  3  0  ^ 

EB  ^ 

^22  1957 
Ocl^'S? 


REC'D  CD- 


JAN  10 1977 
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AN    4)984 


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